"Sir, let us joke no more," said the pilot.
They pushed off rapidly, and soon left the corvette far behind. Both wind and tide were in the oars-man's favor, and the small skiff flew rapidly along, wavering to and fro in the twilight, and hidden by the high crests of the waves.
A gloomy sense of expectation brooded over the sea.
Suddenly amid this illimitable, tumultuous silence a voice was heard; exaggerated by the speaking-trumpet, as by the brazen mask of ancient tragedy, it seemed almost superhuman.
It was Captain Boisberthelot speaking.
"Royal marines," he exclaimed, "nail the white flag to the mizzen-mast! We are about to look upon our last sunrise!"
And the corvette fired a shot.
"Long live the King!" shouted the crew.
Then from the verge of the horizon was heard another shout, stupendous, remote, confused, and yet distinct,—
"Long live the Republic!"