But François was quite dead. He had fallen back and died instantly, so the Chouan judged, shot, probably, through the heart. It was for this, thought La Vireville, that he had dragged him from his wife. . . . He pulled the body with difficulty away from the tiller, laid it on the ballast, spread over it a small spare mizen, and sat down at the helm to think. But he found himself looking rather hopelessly at the mess of blood below the tiller; something must be done to it, for the sake of the little boy who had been through so much. He found a rag under the seat, and with this converted the pool into a smear, and then perceived that, still bleeding himself from the head, he was leaving wherever he moved a further series of bright splashes. "I must stop that," he thought, and took stronger measures with a piece of sailcloth hacked off the mizen. But all the while he was aware of strange momentary gaps in consciousness, though his brain was clear enough. At any cost, he must not lose his senses again--or if he must, let it at least be on land. Only an extraordinary coincidence had saved the _Marie-François_ from being blown on to the rocks or out to sea. Anne was still sobbing; the time to comfort him was not yet come. The pressing need was to make a decision while he yet could. Fortunately he knew his whereabouts exactly. . . . After a few moments' thought he made the decision, altered the boat's course a trifle, and, sitting there steering with the dead fisherman at his feet, began gently to talk to Anne at the other end of the boat. And so, presently, the sun shining, the waves slapping her sides, and the lug-sail wide with the following wind, the _Marie-François_ began to make for the cliffs, just where a spit of rock ran out at their feet and they sloped to a little cove. Here there was only a lazy swell that stirred the long seaweed, for it was half-tide. "We are going ashore here, child," said La Vireville, letting down the sail. "You will not see this boat again." For he meant to sink her if it could be done; she was too clear an indication of their whereabouts, and here, so near his own command, he would have small difficulty in getting another boat for Jersey, and men to sail her, too, more capable of the task than he felt at present. White, dishevelled, and tear-stained, the little boy got off the seat. "Are we to get out now?" he asked uncertainly, as the sail came down with a run. "Yes, little one, and be careful that you do not slip," said the émigré, putting him over the side on to the rock, and scrambling after him. Once there he spread his cloak on the seaweed. "Now sit quiet for a moment," he went on, in a business-like tone, "and take care of these things for me." He put the water-keg, the compass, and what remained of the provisions beside him, and armed himself with an oar.