The man had conquered， but the cannon might be saidto have conquered as well. Immediate shipwreck had beenavoided， but the corvette was not saved. The damage to thevessel seemed beyond repair. There were five breaches inher sides， one， very large， in the bow； twenty of the thirtycarronades lay useless in their frames. The one which had justbeen captured and chained again was disabled； the screw of thecascabel was sprung， and consequently leveling the gun madeimpossible. The battery was reduced to nine pieces. The shipwas leaking. It was necessary to repair the damages at once，and to work the pumps.
The gun-deck， now that one could look over it， was frightfulto behold. The inside of an infuriated elephant’s cage wouldnot be more completely demolished.
However great might be the necessity of escaping observation，the necessity of immediate safety was still more imperative tothe corvette. They had been obliged to light up the deck withlanterns hung here and there on the sides.
However， all the while this tragic play was going on， thecrew were absorbed by a question of life and death， and theywere wholly ignorant of what was taking place outside thevessel. The fog had grown thicker； the weather had changed；the wind had worked its pleasure with the ship； they were outof their course， with Jersey and Guernsey close at hand， furtherto the south than they ought to have been， and in the midst ofa heavy sea. Great billows kissed the gaping wounds of thevessel—kisses full of danger. The rocking of the sea threateneddestruction. The breeze had become a gale. A squall， a tempest，perhaps， was brewing. It was impossible to see four wavesahead.
While the crew were hastily repairing the damages to thegun-deck， stopping the leaks， and putting in place the gunswhich had been uninjured in the disaster， the old passenger hadgone on deck again.
He stood with his back against the mainmast.
He had not noticed a proceeding which had taken place onthe vessel. The Chevalier de la Vieuville had drawn up themarines in line on both sides of the mainmast， and at the soundof the boatswain’s whistle the sailors formed in line， standingon the yards.
The Count de Boisberthelot approached the passenger.
Behind the captain walked a man， haggard， out of breath， hisdress disordered， but still with a look of satisfaction on his face.
It was the gunner who had just shown himself so skilful insubduing monsters， and who had gained the mastery over thecannon.
The count gave the military salute to the old man in peasant’sdress， and said to him：
“General， there is the man.”
The gunner remained standing， with downcast eyes， inmilitary attitude.
The Count de Boisberthelot continued：
“General， in consideration of what this man has done， do younot think there is something due him from his commander？”
“I think so，” said the old man.
“Please give your orders，” replied Boisberthelot.
“It is for you to give them， you are the captain.”
“But you are the general，” replied Boisberthelot.
The old man looked at the gunner.
“Come forward，” he said.
The gunner approached.
The old man turned toward the Count de Boisberthelot，took off the cross of Saint-Louis from the captain’s coat andfastened it on the gunner’s jacket.
“Hurrah！” cried the sailors.
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 manraised his voice and said：
“Carelessness has compromised this vessel. At this veryhour 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 isconcealed， but it is at hand. The whole sea is an ambuscade.
Death is the penalty of any misdemeanor committed in theface of the enemy. No fault is reparable. Courage should berewarded， and negligence punished.”
These words fell one after another， slowly， solemnly， in asort 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.
At a signal from Count de Boisberthelot， two sailors wentbelow and came back bringing the hammock-shroud； thechaplain， who since they sailed had been at prayer in theofficers’ quarters， accompanied the two sailors； a sergeantdetached twelve marines from the line and arranged themin two files， six by six； the gunner， without uttering a word，placed himself between the two files. The chaplain， crucifixin hand， advanced and stood beside him. “March，” said thesergeant. The platoon marched with slow steps to the bow ofthe vessel. The two sailors， carrying the shroud， followed. Agloomy silence fell over the vessel. A hurricane howled in thedistance.
A few moments later， a light flashed， a report soundedthrough the darkness， then all was still， and the sound of abody falling into the sea was heard.
The old passenger， still leaning against the mainmast， hadcrossed his arms， and was buried in thought.
Boisberthelot pointed to him with the forefinger of his lefthand， and said to La Vieuville in a low voice：
“La Vendée has a head.”
