"Be good enough to give the orders," returned Boisberthelot. "It is for you to give them. You are the captain." "But you are the general," answered Boisberthelot. The old man looked at the gunner. "Approach," said he. The gunner moved forward a step. The old man turned toward Count du Boisberthelot, detached the cross of Saint-Louis from the captain's uniform and fastened it on the jacket of the gunner. "Hurrah!" cried the sailors. The marines presented arms. The old passenger, pointing with his finger toward the bewildered gunner, added: "Now let that man be shot." Stupor succeeded the applause. Then, in the midst of a silence like that of the tomb, the old man raised his voice. He said: "A negligence has endangered this ship. At this moment she is perhaps lost. To be at sea is to face the enemy. A vessel at open sea is an army which gives battle. The tempest conceals, but does not absent itself. The whole sea is an ambuscade. Death is the penalty of any fault committed in the face of the enemy. No fault is reparable. Courage ought to be rewarded and negligence punished." These words fell one after the other, slowly, solemnly, with a sort of inexorable measure, like the blows of an ax upon an oak. And the old man, turning to the soldiers, added: "Do your duty." The man upon whose breast shone the cross of Saint-Louis bowed his head. At a sign from Count du Boisberthelot, two sailors descended between decks, then returned, bringing the hammock winding sheet. The ship's chaplain, who since the time of sailing had been at prayer in the officers' quarters, accompanied the two sailors; a sergeant detached from the line twelve marines, whom he arranged in two ranks, six by six; the gunner, without uttering a word, placed himself between the two files. The chaplain, crucifix in hand, advanced and stood near him. "March!" said the sergeant. The platoon moved with slow steps toward the bow. The two sailors who carried the shroud followed. A gloomy silence fell upon the corvette. A hurricane moaned in the distance. A few instants later there was a flash; a report followed, echoing among the shadows; then all was silent; then came the thud of a body falling into the sea. Good Manners Fifty Years Ago. Easier for a Camel to Pass Through a Needle's Eye Than for the Modern Aspirant to Butt into Society Through the Rules of Deportment Prevalent in the Middle of the Last Century.