The mariners presented arms.
And the old passenger, pointing to the dazzled gunner, added:
“Now, have this man shot.”
Dismay succeeded the cheering.
Then in the midst of the death-like stillness, the old man raised his voice and said:
“Carelessness has compromised this vessel. At this very hour it is perhaps lost. To be at sea is to be in front of the enemy. A ship making a voyage is an army waging war. The tempest is concealed, but it is at hand. The whole sea is an ambuscade. Death is the penalty of any misdemeanor committed in the face of the enemy. No fault is reparable. Courage should be rewarded, and negligence punished.”
These words fell one after another, slowly, solemnly, in a sort of inexorable metre, like the blows of an axe upon an oak.
And the man, looking at the soldiers, added:
“Let it be done.”
The man on whose jacket hung the shining cross of Saint-Louis bowed his head.