This very quiet morning, with the wind off shore, and scarcely enough of
it to comb the sea, four smart-looking Frenchmen, with red caps on their
heads, were barely holding way upon the light gig of the Blonde, while
their Captain was keeping an appointment with a stranger, not far
from the weed-strewn line of waves. In a deep rocky channel where a
land-spring rose (which was still-born except at low water), and laver
and dilsk and claw-coral showed that the sea had more dominion there
than the sky, two men stood facing each other; and their words, though
belonging to the most polite of tongues, were not so courteous as might
be. Each man stood with his back to a rock--not touching it, however,
because it was too wet--one was as cold and as firm as the rock,
the other like the sea, tumultuous. The passionate man was Captain
Desportes, and the cold one Caryl Carne.
"Then you wish me to conclude, monsieur," Carne spoke as one offering
repentance, "that you will not do your duty to your country, in the
subject set before you? I pray you to deliberate, because your position
hangs upon it."
"Never! Never! Once more, Captain, with all thanks for your
consideration, I refuse. My duty to my own honour has first place. After
that my duty to my country. Speak of it no more, sir; it quite is to
insult me."
"No, Captain Desportes, it is nothing of that kind, or I should not
be here to propose it. Your parole is given only as long as your ship
continues upon the sand.
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