La Vireville opened his eyes. It was day again, bright sunlight. The _Marie-François_ was bounding forward before a spanking breeze. For a second or two La Vireville could not remember why he was there--hardly, indeed, who he was. Then he looked up instinctively at the yard. It was there, unharmed, at the top of the brown, swelling sail. He himself was half lying, half sitting on the seat that ran round the gunwale, and everything was as before the helmsman at the tiller---- The helmsman! "My God!" said La Vireville aloud. The fisherman was indeed sitting in the sternsheets, his arm over the tiller; but he was sitting in a heap, and his face was upturned to the sky. Under the tiller was a red pool shifting with the motion of the boat. The Chouan stared at him horror-struck. "My God!" he said again. "He's been hit. . . . Anne, Anne, where are you?" Only then did he become aware of something clutching tightly one of his legs, and, looking down, saw the child clinging there, his face hidden. The émigré moved to take him in his arms, and was instantly conscious that he was very dizzy and that there was blood on the breast of his own coat. "Ciel! did they get me too?" he wondered, and putting up a hand to his head withdrew it with a reddened palm. How long ago did it all happen? There was the coast, but no guardhouse. It must be out of sight now behind the headland. The wind had taken them on, the dead hand had steered them--if indeed François were dead? He must see to him first. "Anne--my little pigeon, my comrade, it is all right," he said, stooping to him. At the sound of his voice the child lifted his head, took one look at him, and screamed. La Vireville then realised that there must be blood down his face, and, pulling out his handkerchief, did his best to remove it. Afterwards he twisted the handkerchief hurriedly round his head, in which, so far as he knew, there might be a bullet, though he inclined to think that it was a ball ricochetting off the mast which had given him a glancing blow. Otherwise he would hardly be alive to speculate about it. Not that there was any time just then for speculation. . . . Anne-Hilarion suffered himself to be lifted on to his friend's knee, and, shuddering convulsively, hid his face once more in his breast. La Vireville comforted him as well as he could, trying hastily to dissipate the terror which seemed to have frozen him, for he could not devote much time to consolation now, when Francois might be bleeding to death. So he soon lifted the little boy off his knee, and put him down facing the bows, telling him not to look round; and Anne, sobbing now as if his heart would break, leant his head on the gunwale, and so remained.