About midday they came for me, and I was content that the end had come.  They led me to the waist of the ship, where the whole company was assembled, and there they stripped me to the waist and bound my wrists to a gun carriage.

It was little relief to me to know that I was to be flogged, for the lash degrades, and breaks a man’s spirit even more than his body.  Even if undeserved, the brand remains, and can never be forgotten.  It seemed to me then that I would as lief be shot and have done with it.

The captain eyed me keenly.

“Well,” he asked, “you are still of the same mind?  You still will not fight?”

“Not against my own country—­not though you flog me to ribbons, monsieur.”

The cat rested lightly on my back as the man who held it waited for the word.

Then, as I braced myself for the first stroke, which would be the hardest to bear, the captain said quietly to the officer next to him, “Perhaps as well end it at once.  Send a file of marines—­” and they walked a few steps beyond my hearing, for the blood belled in my ears and blurred my eyes so that my last sight of earth was like to be a dim one.

“Cast him loose and bandage his eyes,” said the captain, and they set me standing against the side of the ship and tied a white cloth over my eyes.

I heard clearly enough now and with a quickened sense.  I heard them range the men opposite to me—­I hard the tiny clicking of the rings on the muskets as the men handled them—­the breathing of those who looked on—­the soft wash of the sea behind.  But as far as was in me I faced them without flinching, for in truth I had given myself up and was thinking only of Carette and my mother and my grandfather, and was sending them farewell and a last prayer for their good.

“Are you ready?” asked the captain.  “You will fire when I drop the handkerchief.  You—­prisoner—­for the last time—­yes or no?”

I shook my head, for I feared lest my voice should betray me.  Let none but him who has faced this coldest of deaths cast a stone at me.

“Present!  Fire!”—­the last words I expected to hear on earth.  The muskets rang out—­but I stood untouched.

The captain walked across to me, whipped off the bandage, and clapped me soundly on the bare shoulder.  “You are a brave boy, and I take as truth every word you have told me.  If we come to fighting with your countrymen you shall tend our wounded.  As to Red Hand—­when we return home we will attend to him.  Now, mon gars, to your duty!” and to my amazement I was alive, unflogged, and believed.

Perhaps it was a harsh test and an over cruel jest.  But the man had no means of coming at the truth, and if he had shot me none could have said a word against it.

For me, I said simply, “I thank you, monsieur,” and went to my duty.

My shipmates were for making much of me, in their rough and excited way, but I begged them to leave me to myself for a time, till I was quite sure I was still alive.  And they did so at last, and I heard them debating among themselves how it could be that an Englishman could speak French as freely as they did themselves.