It was at this moment of extreme despondency, that Lachane tried to cheer them with new hope, and to new exertions. He encouraged them by various assurance, to hold out against fate, and struggle manfully to the last. He told them "how little way they had to sayle, assuring them that if the winde helde, they should see land within three dayes." "At worst," he added, "we can die when we can do no better. It will be always time enough for that. But this necessity is not now. We can surely put it off for some time longer. At present, let us live!" Speaking thus, in the most cheerful manner, the brave fellow set them a proper example by which to dissipate their fears and to provide against them. He began to bail and cast out the water in which, in their extreme indifference to their fate, they either sat or lay. They took heart as they beheld him, and joined in the labor with new vigor, and that elastic spirit which is so characteristic of Frenchmen. But, when the three days had gone by, and still their eyes were unblessed with the sight of the promised land--when they had consumed every remnant of shoe and jerkin, and nothing more was left them to consume, they turned their eyes in bitter reproach upon the man who had persuaded them to live. He met their reproachful glances with a smile, and instantly devised a remedy for their fears and weaknesses, through one of those terrible thoughts which, at any other period, would revolt, with extremest loathing, the humanity of the man, however little human. "My comrades!" said the noble fellow, "you hunger--you starve! You will perish unless you can get some food. I see it in your eyes. They have no lustre, and the courage seems to have gone out entirely from your hearts. You must not die! You must not lose your courage. You _shall_ not. You shall drink life and courage out of my breast. I have enough there for all who thirst and faint. You shall feed upon my heart--you shall drink the blood of a brave man, and live for your friends and country. I have few friends, and my country can spare me. Better that one of us should die than that all should perish. I am ready to die for you! What! You shake your heads--you would not have it so--but it shall be so! You have loved me--you have suffered for me. Well, Lachane loves you in return--he will die for you. You shall remember him hereafter, when our own dear France receives you again in safety. You will bless his memory!" A groan was the only reply of those around him. Lachane threw open his breast. "There!" he cried; "Look! I am ready! I fear not death. Strike! See you not, my bosom is open to the knife. My hand is down--there!"--grasping the seat upon which he sate,--"There! it shall not be lifted to arrest the blow!"