“Have you Hardquanonne’s flask?”

“Yes.”

“Give it me.”

Capgaroupe drank off the last mouthful of brandy, and handed the flask to the doctor.

The water was rising in the hold; the wreck was sinking deeper and deeper into the sea.  The sloping edges of the ship were covered by a thin gnawing wave, which was rising.  All were crowded on the centre of the deck.

The doctor dried the ink on the signatures by the heat of the torch, and folding the parchment into a narrower compass than the diameter of the neck, put it into the flask.  He called for the cork.

“I don’t know where it is,” said Capgaroupe.

“Here is a piece of rope,” said Jacques Quartourze.

The doctor corked the flask with a bit of rope, and asked for some tar.  Galdeazun went forward, extinguished the signal light with a piece of tow, took the vessel in which it was contained from the stern, and brought it, half full of burning tar, to the doctor.

The flask holding the parchment which they had all signed was corked and tarred over.

“It is done,” said the doctor.

And from out all their mouths, vaguely stammered in every language, came the dismal utterances of the catacombs.

“Ainsi soit-il!”

“Mea culpa!”

“Asi sea!”

“Aro rai!”

“Amen!”

It was as though the sombre voices of Babel were scattered through the shadows as Heaven uttered its awful refusal to hear them.

The doctor turned away from his companions in crime and distress, and took a few steps towards the gunwale.  Reaching the side, he looked into space, and said, in a deep voice,—­

“Bist du bei mir?"[8]

Perchance he was addressing some phantom.

The wreck was sinking.

Behind the doctor all the others were in a dream.  Prayer mastered them by main force.  They did not bow, they were bent.  There was something involuntary in their condition; they wavered as a sail flaps when the breeze fails.  And the haggard group took by degrees, with clasping of hands and prostration of foreheads, attitudes various, yet of humiliation.  Some strange reflection of the deep seemed to soften their villainous features.

The doctor returned towards them.  Whatever had been his past, the old man was great in the presence of the catastrophe.

The deep reserve of nature which enveloped him preoccupied without disconcerting him.  He was not one to be taken unawares.  Over him was the calm of a silent horror:  on his countenance the majesty of God’s will comprehended.

This old and thoughtful outlaw unconsciously assumed the air of a pontiff.

He said,—­

“Attend to me.”

He contemplated for a moment the waste of water, and added,—­

“Now we are going to die.”

Then he took the torch from the hands of Ave Maria, and waved it.