"At once, if Monseigneur wishes." "Do not call me 'Monseigneur.' That is over, Captain. I am only Naundorff, the mechanic, the chemist. You are taking me from a land where I have known only sorrow to a country of peace and liberty. In Holland my good wife and little children await me. There shall I forget my insensate dreams, the cause of my ills. Because of my refusal to accept the decrees of fate, I have been punished in whom I most love, this daughter. A widow twice, never having been a wife, her life is blighted forever. The prison walls did not lie in speaking to me the terrible words: 'Your friends shall perish.'" Amélie laid her hand on her father's shoulder. Her eyes were dry. She seemed to forgive him all that she had suffered. "My friends," added Naundorff, turning to the Carbonari, "let us give the lie to the prison prophecy. Since I am given respite and my persecutors seem to be satiated from having rifled me of my certificates; since they ignore my interview with the woman--whom I have forgiven (may my mother in heaven forgive her also)--; friends, return to a quiet life and cease to combat, cease to conspire, cease to avenge! A clear light illumines my mind and heart. I see what I would impart to you. Listen: Resist not evil; rather return good for evil. He who uproots the hedge will be bitten by the serpent, say the words of eternal wisdom. Forgive that you may be forgiven." Louis Pierre turned his face away that Naundorff might not see the keen light in his eyes. "Farewell, farewell!" repeated the outlaw. "I am a simple man, henceforth. My only title is that of Man. I go to earn my bread by the sweat of my brow. I go to die obscurely. Embrace me again." The two Carbonari folded their arms around him, Giacinto shedding tears. Naundorff said gently: "Thanks, thanks! Peace descend upon you both. Cease to struggle, claim not your dues. And you, Giacinto, do penance. Your hands are stained with blood." The Sicilian involuntarily looked upon those members. Just then they were seized by Amélie, who whispered in his ear: "O Giacinto, do not reproach yourself! 'Twas simple justice. Listen. She who prepared the ambuscade shall herself leave France in banishment, or else there is no God." Some moments later the sloop glided out of port. Erect and majestic, like unto a dethroned queen, Amélie waved an adieu to the Knights of Liberty. Giacinto and Louis Pierre stood motionless on the wharf which now began to be covered with fishermen, sailors and venders. Their eyes were riveted upon the sloop as she reached the schooner Polipheme. They could still distinguish the black form of Amélie and her father's grave outlines. The Polipheme weighed anchor, spread sails and gracefully cleaved the waves red with the morning sun.