"That he would rather remain a prisoner all his life than owe his freedom to the death of another person. Don't you think that M. Onésime and I are right?" "I hardly know what to say, my child. A humdrum merchant like myself is not a very good judge of such matters. Still, it seems to me that you and M. Onésime are rather hard on the poor privateer." "But, father, read the frightful story, and you will see--" "But listen, this privateer had a family, perhaps, that he tenderly loved, and that he was hoping soon to see again, and in his despair at finding himself a prisoner--" "A family! Men who live in the midst of carnage have families that they love tenderly? Is that possible, father?" "Why, do not even wolves love their young?" "I don't know anything about that; but if they do love them, they love them after the manner of wolves, I suppose, bringing them a piece of their bleeding prey when they are little, and leading them out to attack and devour the poor lambs when they get older." A bitter expression flitted over Cloarek's face; then he answered, smiling: "After all, you and M. Onésime may be right. If you would talk to me about silks and merino I might hold my own, but I am not much of a judge of privateers and privateering." "I was sure you would agree with us. How could a person who is as generous, compassionate, and affectionate as you are think otherwise? or, rather, I could not think differently from what you do, my dear father, for if I have a horror of everything that is cruel and wicked, if I love everything that is good and beautiful, is it not to you and your example I owe it, as well as to the precepts of my poor mother whom you loved so devotedly? for not a day passes that Suzanne does not relate some instance of your deep affection for her." The conversation was here interrupted by the entrance of the housekeeper, candle in hand, who, to Yvon's great surprise, announced: "I am very sorry, but it is ten o'clock, monsieur." "Well, what of it, Suzanne?" "It is the hour the doctor said mademoiselle must go to bed, you know." "Give me just a quarter of an hour more, Suzanne?" "Not a single minute, mademoiselle." "On the evening of my return, you might permit this slight dissipation, it seems to me, Suzanne." "Heaven be thanked, mademoiselle will have plenty of opportunity to see you now, but allowing her to sit up later than ten o'clock is not to be thought of. She would be sure to be tired out, if not ill, to-morrow." "In that case, I have nothing to say except good night, my dear child," said Cloarek, taking his daughter's face in his two hands, and kissing her tenderly on the forehead. "Sleep well, my dearest, and may the morning find you well and happy."