“Yet your fraternal friendship and that of Raimond Digiare very dear to me; but, alas, although the dews of May and the sweet rains of June may fall in the sea, they can never sweeten the bitterness of its deep waters. But what did you come to ask me?” “Pardon for a poor Moor condemned this morning to the chase-gun.” “That sentence has been executed, and it could not be, my brother, that I should ever grant you this pardon.” “Thank God, the sentence has not been executed; there is still some hope left me, Pierre.” “The hour-glass stands at two. I gave order to the captain of the mast to tie the Moor to the chase-gun at one o’clock; the slave ought to be now in the hands of the surgeon and chaplain,--may God save the soul of this pagan, if his body has not been able to endure the punishment.” “At my earnest request, the captain of the mast suspended the execution, my brother.” “You cannot say what is not true, Elzear, but this moment you have made a fatal gift to the captain of the mast.” “Pierre, remember that I alone am responsible. Pardon, I pray--” “Holy Cross!” cried the commander, impetuously, “for the first time since I have commanded this galley, shall I pardon, in the same day, two of the gravest faults that can be committed: the revolt of a slave against a subordinate officer, and the want of discipline in the subordinate officer toward his chief? No, no, that is impossible!” The commander took a whistle from his belt and blew a shrill note through the little silver tube. A page clothed in black appeared at the door. “The captain of the mast!” said the commander, abruptly. The page went out. “Ah, my brother, will you be altogether without pity?” cried Elzear, in a tone of sad reproach. “Without pity?” and the commander smiled bitterly, “yes, without pity for the faults of others, as for my own faults.” The priest, remembering the terrible chastisement that his brother had just inflicted upon himself, realised that such a man must be inexorable in the observance of discipline, and bowed his head, renouncing all hope. The captain of the mast entered. “You will remain eight nights in irons on the rambade,” said the commander. The sailor bowed respectfully, without uttering a word. “Let the chaplain and surgeon be informed that the Moor is to be chastised on the chase-gun.” The captain of the mast bowed more profoundly still and disappeared. “I, at least, will not abandon this poor wretch!” cried Father Elzear, rising hurriedly in order to accompany him. The good brother went out, and Pierre des Anbiez resumed his slow promenade in his chamber. From time to time his eyes were attracted, in spite of himself, by the fatal portrait of the man for whose murder he suffered such remorse. Then his steps became irregular and his face became sad and gloomy again. For the first time perhaps in many years, he felt a thrill of pain at the thought of the cruel suffering the Moor was about to undergo.