Jean Cornbutte’s invited guests soon arrived. Though it was very early, not a single one failed to appear. All congratulated the honest old sailor whom they loved. Meanwhile Marie, kneeling down, changed her prayers to God into thanksgivings. She soon returned, lovely and decked out, to the company; and all the women kissed her on the check, while the men vigorously grasped her by the hand. Then Jean Cornbutte gave the signal of departure. It was a curious sight to see this joyous group taking its way, at sunrise, towards the sea. The news of the ship’s arrival had spread through the port, and many heads, in nightcaps, appeared at the windows and at the half-opened doors. Sincere compliments and pleasant nods came from every side. The party reached the pier in the midst of a concert of praise and blessings. The weather was magnificent, and the sun seemed to take part in the festivity. A fresh north wind made the waves foam; and some fishing-smacks, their sails trimmed for leaving port, streaked the sea with their rapid wakes between the breakwaters. The two piers of Dunkirk stretch far out into the sea. The wedding-party occupied the whole width of the northern pier, and soon reached a small house situated at its extremity, inhabited by the harbour-master. The wind freshened, and the “Jeune-Hardie” ran swiftly under her topsails, mizzen, brigantine, gallant, and royal. There was evidently rejoicing on board as well as on land. Jean Cornbutte, spy-glass in hand, responded merrily to the questions of his friends. “See my ship!” he cried; “clean and steady as if she had been rigged at Dunkirk! Not a bit of damage done,—not a rope wanting!” “Do you see your son, the captain?” asked one. “No, not yet. Why, he’s at his business!” “Why doesn’t he run up his flag?” asked Clerbaut. “I scarcely know, old friend. He has a reason for it, no doubt.” “Your spy-glass, uncle?” said Marie, taking it from him. “I want to be the first to see him.” “But he is my son, mademoiselle!” “He has been your son for thirty years,” answered the young girl, laughing, “and he has only been my betrothed for two!” The “Jeune-Hardie” was now entirely visible. Already the crew were preparing to cast anchor. The upper sails had been reefed. The sailors who were among the rigging might be recognized. But neither Marie nor Jean Cornbutte had yet been able to wave their hands at the captain of the ship. “Faith! there’s the first mate, André Vasling,” cried Clerbaut. “And there’s Fidèle Misonne, the carpenter,” said another. “And our friend Penellan,” said a third, saluting the sailor named. The “Jeune-Hardie” was only three cables’ lengths from the shore, when a black flag ascended to the gaff of the brigantine. There was mourning on board! A shudder of terror seized the party and the heart of the young girl.