Stupor succeeded the applause.
Then, in the midst of a silence like that of the tomb, the old man raised his voice. He said:
"A negligence has endangered this ship. At this moment she is perhaps lost. To be at sea is to face the enemy. A vessel at open sea is an army which gives battle. The tempest conceals, but does not absent itself. The whole sea is an ambuscade. Death is the penalty of any fault committed in the face of the enemy. No fault is reparable. Courage ought to be rewarded and negligence punished."
These words fell one after the other, slowly, solemnly, with a sort of inexorable measure, like the blows of an ax upon an oak.
And the old man, turning to the soldiers, added:
"Do your duty."
The man upon whose breast shone the cross of Saint-Louis bowed his head.
At a sign from Count du Boisberthelot, two sailors descended between decks, then returned, bringing the hammock winding sheet. The ship's chaplain, who since the time of sailing had been at prayer in the officers' quarters, accompanied the two sailors; a sergeant detached from the line twelve marines, whom he arranged in two ranks, six by six; the gunner, without uttering a word, placed himself between the two files. The chaplain, crucifix in hand, advanced and stood near him.
"March!" said the sergeant.
The platoon moved with slow steps toward the bow. The two sailors who carried the shroud followed.