The launch was swinging around to the _Saragossa's_ ladder. Father Fontanel had not spoken. Wherever the ship-lights fell, the sheeting of ash could be seen--upon mast and railing and plates. They helped the good man up the ladder, and Stock ordered Laird, his first officer, to steam out of the blizzard, a dozen miles if necessary. The anchor chain began to grind at once, and three minutes later, the _Saragossa's_ screws were kicking the ugly harbor tide. Charter watched, strangely disconcerted, until only the dull red of Pelée pierced the thick veil behind. A star, and another, pricked the blue vault ahead, and the air blew in fragrant as wine from the rolling Caribbean, but each moment was an arraignment now.... He wanted none of the clean sea; and the mere fact that he would not rouse her before daylight, even if he were at the _Palms_, did not lessen the savage pressure of the time.... Father Fontanel would not sleep, but moved among his people on deck. The natives refused to stay below, now that the defiled harbor was behind. There was a humming of old French lullabies to the little ones. Cool air had brought back the songs of peace and summer to the lowly hearts. It was an hour before dawn, and the _Saragossa_ was already putting back toward the roadstead, when Father Fontanel called Charter suddenly. "Make haste and go to the woman, my son," he said strangely. Charter could not answer. The priest had spoken little more than this, since they led him from the parish-house. The _Saragossa_ crept into the edge of the smoke. The gray ghost of morning was stealing into the hateful haze. They found anchorage. The launch was in readiness below. It was not yet six. Ernst was off duty, and another sailor,--one whose room was prepared in the dim pavilion--waited at the tiller. Charter waved at the pale mute face of the priest, leaning overside, and the fog rushed in between. The launch gained the inner harbor, and the white ships at anchor were vague as phantoms in the vapor--French steamers, Italian barques, and the smaller West Indian craft--all with their work to do and their way to win. Charter heard one officer shout to another a whimsical inquiry--if Saint Pierre were in her usual place or had switched sites with hell. The day was clearing rapidly, however, and before the launch reached shore, the haze so lifted that Pelée could be seen, floating a pennant of black out to sea. In the city, a large frame warehouse was ablaze. The tinder-dry structure was being destroyed with almost explosive speed.