The Englishman knew too well with whom he was dealing to harbour any ill-feeling against the ignorant fishermen or even towards the Abbé Drucquer for the rough treatment he had received. The former were poor, and money never was beaten by a scruple in open combat yet. The latter, he rightly presumed, was only obeying a mandate he dared not dispute. The authority was to him Divine, the command came from one whom he had sworn to look up to and obey as the earthly representative of his Master. At length the deck was cleared, and order reigned on board, though the mainsail could not be set until the weather moderated. Then Hoel Grall came up to the young Englishman and said: “Monsieur, let us carry the 'patron' down below. It is not right for the dead to lie there in this wind and storm.” “I am willing,” answered Christian, looking towards the spot where the dead man lay. “Then, perhaps--Monsieur,” began the Breton with some hesitation. “Yes,” answered Christian encouragingly, “what is it?” “Perhaps Monsieur will speak to--to the Abbé. It is that we do not like to disturb him in prayer.” The young Englishman bowed his head with characteristic decision. “I will do so,” he said gravely. Then he crawled across the deck and touched René Drucquer's shoulder. The priest did not look up until the touch had been repeated. “Yes,” he murmured; “yes. What do you want?” Christian, guessed at the words, for in the tumult of the gale he could not hear them. “Is it not better to take him below?” he shouted. Then for the first time did the priest appear to remember that this was not one of the sailors. “I beg your pardon,” he said, rising from his knees. “You are right; it is better. But I am afraid the men will not assist me. They are afraid of touching the dead when they are afloat.” “I will help you,” said Christian simply, “and that man also, I think, because he proposed it.” With a motion of the head he indicated Hoel Grall, upon whom the command of the little vessel had now devolved. The man was better educated than his companions, and spoke French fluently, but in the Breton character superstition is so deeply rooted that generations of education will scarcely eradicate it. The priest looked into the Englishman's face with a gentle wonder in his eyes, which were shadowy with the fervour of his recent devotions. The two men were crouching low upon the deck, grasping the black rail with their left hands; the water washed backwards and forwards around their feet. It was the first time they had seen each other face to face in open daylight, and their eyes met quietly and searchingly as they swayed from side to side with the heavy lurching of the ship. The Englishman spoke first. “You must leave it to us,” he said calmly. “You could do nothing in this heavy sea with your one arm!”