He who had addressed him was about thirty years of age. The tan of the sea was upon his brow; there was something unusual about his eyes, as if the simple pupils of the peasant had taken on the keen expression of the sailor; he held his oars firmly in his hands. He looked gentle enough. In his belt he wore a dirk, two pistols, and a rosary. "Who are you?" said the old man. "I have just told you." "What do you wish?" The man dropped the oars, folded his arms, and replied,-- "To kill you." "As you please!" replied the old man. The man raised his voice. "Prepare yourself." "For what?" "To die." "Why?" inquired the old man. A silence followed. For a moment the question seemed to abash the man. He continued,-- "I tell you that I mean to kill you." "And I ask of you the reason." The sailor's eyes flashed. "Because you killed my brother." The old man answered quietly,-- "I saved his life at first." "True. You saved him first, but you killed him afterwards." "It was not I who killed him." "Who was it, then?" "His own fault." The sailor gazed on the old man open-mouthed; then once more his brows contracted savagely. "What is your name?" asked the old man. "My name is Halmalo, but I can kill you all the same, whether you know my name or not." Just then the sun rose; a ray struck the sailor full in the face, vividly illumining that wild countenance. The old man studied it closely. The cannonading, though not yet ended, was no longer continuous. A dense smoke had settled upon the horizon. The boat, left to itself, was drifting to leeward. With his right hand the sailor seized one of the pistols at his belt, while in his left he held his rosary. The old man rose to his feet. "Do you believe in God?" he asked. "'Our Father who art in heaven.'" replied the sailor. Then he made the sign of the cross. "Have you a mother?" He crossed himself again, saying,-- "I have said all I have to say. I give you one minute longer, my lord." And he cocked the pistol. "Why do you call me 'My lord'?" "Because you are one. That is evident enough." "Have you a lord yourself?" "Yes, and a grand one too. Is one likely to be without a lord?" "Where is he?" "I do not know. He has left the country. His name is Marquis de Lantenac, Viscount de Fontenay, Prince in Brittany; he is lord of the Sept-Forêts. I never saw him, but he is my master all the same." "If you were to see him, would you obey him?" "Of course I should be a heathen were I not to obey him! We owe obedience to God, and after that to the king, who is like unto God, and then to the lord, who is like the king. But that has nothing to do with the question; you have killed my brother, and I must kill you." The old man replied,-- "Let us say, then, that I did kill your brother; I did well." The sailor had closed more firmly upon his pistol. "Come!" he said. "So be it," said the old man. And he added composedly,-- "Where is the priest?" The sailor looked at him.