"He too is about to face a serious danger. It is not easy to reach the coast. The boat must be large enough to live in this sea, and small enough to escape the cruisers. He must land at some safe point, and it will be better to do so nearer Fougères than Coutances. We want a hardy sailor, a good oars-man and a strong swimmer, a man from that neighborhood, and one who knows the straits. It is still so dark that a boat can put off from the corvette without attracting attention; and later there will be smoke enough to hide it from view. Its size will be an advantage in the shallows. Where the panther is caught, the weasel escapes. Although there is no outlet for us, there may be for a small rowboat; the enemy's ships will not see it, and, what is more, about that time we shall be giving them plenty of diversion. Is it decided?" "Yes, yes, yes!" cried the crew. "Then there is not a moment to be lost," continued the captain. "Is there a man among you willing to undertake the business?" In the darkness, a sailor stepped out of the ranks and said,-- "I am the man." [Illustration 017] X. DOES HE ESCAPE? [Illustration 018] A few minutes later, one of those small boats called a gig, which are always devoted to the use of the captain, pushed off from the ship. There were two men in this boat,--the passenger in the stern, and the volunteer sailor in the bow. The night was still very dark. The sailor, according to the captain's instructions, rowed energetically towards the Minquiers. For that matter, it was the only direction in which he could row. Some provisions had been placed in the bottom of the boat,--a bag of biscuits, a smoked tongue, and a barrel of water. Just as they were lowering the gig, La Vieuville, a very scoffer in the presence of destruction, leaning over the stern-post of the corvette, cried out in his cool sneering voice a parting word:-- "Very good for escaping, and still better for drowning." "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!" And a din like unto the roar of three hundred thunderbolts exploded in the depths of the sea. The conflict began. The sea was covered with fire and smoke.