“No, no,” cried Murat; “I will not land except in Corsica.  I will not leave France again.  Besides, the sea is calm and the wind is getting up again—­”

“Down with the sails!” shouted Donadieu.  Instantly Langlade and Blancard jumped forward to carry out the order.  The sail slid down the mast and fell in a heap in the bottom of the boat.

“What are you doing?” cried Murat.  “Do you forget that I am king and that I command you?”

“Sire,” said Donadieu, “there is a king more powerful than you—­God; there is a voice which drowns yours—­the voice of the tempest:  let us save your Majesty if possible, and demand nothing more of us.”

Just then a flash of lightning quivered along the horizon, a clap of thunder nearer than the first one was heard, a light foam appeared on the surface of the water, and the boat trembled like a living thing.  Murat began to understand that danger was approaching, then he got up smiling, threw his hat behind him, shook back his long hair, and breathed in the storm like the smell of powder—­the soldier was ready for the battle.

“Sire,” said Donadieu, “you have seen many a battle, but perhaps you have never watched a storm if you are curious about it, cling to the mast, for you have a fine opportunity now.”

“What ought I to do?” said Murat.  “Can I not help you in any way?”

“No, not just now, sire; later you will be useful at the pumps.”

During this dialogue the storm had drawn near; it rushed on the travellers like a war-horse, breathing out fire and wind through its nostrils, neighing like thunder, and scattering the foam of the waves beneath its feet.

Donadieu turned the rudder, the boat yielded as if it understood the necessity for prompt obedience, and presented the poop to the shock of wind; then the squall passed, leaving the sea quivering, and everything was calm again.  The storm took breath.

“Will that gust be all?” asked Murat.

“No, your Majesty, that was the advance-guard only; the body of the army will be up directly.”

“And are you not going to prepare for it?” asked the king gaily.

“What could we do?” said Donadieu.  “We have not an inch of canvas to catch the wind, and as long as we do not make too much water, we shall float like a cork.  Look out-sire!”

Indeed, a second hurricane was on its way, bringing rain and lightning; it was swifter than the first.  Donadieu endeavoured to repeat the same manoeuvre, but he could not turn before the wind struck the boat, the mast bent like a reed; the boat shipped a wave.

“To the pumps!” cried Donadieu.  “Sire, now is the moment to help us—­”

Blancard, Langlade, and Murat seized their hats and began to bale out the boat.  The position of the four men was terrible—­it lasted three hours.

At dawn the wind fell, but the sea was still high.  They began to feel the need of food:  all the provisions had been spoiled by sea-water, only the wine had been preserved from its contact.