Jean pulled the chair closer to the bed, and took one of Gaston's hands.
"It means nothing that, Gaston," he said, trying to control his voice. "It is bad to think such thoughts—and of what good are they? You must not think of that. Tell me what happened, how you and Marie-Louise came to be out there to-night."
Gaston lay quiet for a little while—so long that Jean thought the other had not heard the question. Then the old fisherman spoke again.
"Marie-Louise will tell you. I have other things to say, and I have not strength enough for all. It is hard to talk. Give me the cognac again, Jean."
He drank almost greedily this time, and, as Jean held up his head that he might do so the more readily, the grim old lips and unflinching eyes smiled back their thanks.
"Listen to me well, Jean," he went on earnestly. "Marie-Louise is very dear to me. I love the little girl. All her life she has lived with me—for two years after she was born in this house here, her mother and René and I—and two years more with René and I—and then, after that, it was just Marie-Louise and I alone. She had no one else—and I had no one else. I have taught her as the bon Dieu has shown me the way to teach her to be a true daughter of France—to love God and be never afraid. Jean"—he reached out his other hand suddenly and clasped it over Jean's—"do you love Marie-Louise?"
"Yes," said Jean simply.
"She will be alone now," said Gaston, and his eyes filled. "She is a good girl, Jean. She is pure and innocent, and her heart is so full of love, there was never such love as hers, and she is so gay and bright like the flowers and like the birds—and happy—and sorrow has not come to her." He stopped once more, and the grey eyes searched Jean's face as though they would read to the other's soul. "Jean," he asked again, "do you love Marie-Louise?"
Jean's lips were quivering now.
"Yes," he answered. "You know I love her."
The old fisherman lay back, silent, still for a moment, but he kept pressing Jean's hand. When he spoke again, it seemed that it was with more of an effort.
"This house, the land, the boats, the nets, they are hers—it is her dot. But it is not of that, I fear—it is not of that—" his voice died away. Again he was silent; and then, suddenly, raising himself on his elbow: "Jean," he asked for the third time, almost fiercely now, "do you love Marie-Louise?"
"But yes, Gaston," said Jean gently. "I have loved her all my life."
"Yes; it is so," Gaston muttered slowly. "I give her to you then, Jean—she is a gift to you from the sea—from the sea to-night. She loves you, Jean—she has told me so. You will be good to her, Jean?"
The tears were in Jean's eyes.
"Gaston, can you ask it?" he cried out brokenly.
"Ay!" said Gaston, and his voice rang out in a strange, stern note, and his form, as he lifted himself up once more, seemed to possess again its old rugged strength. "Ay—I do more than ask it. Swear it, Jean! To a dying man and in God's presence, see, there is a crucifix there, swear that you will guard her and that you will let no harm come to her."
"I swear it, Gaston," said Jean, in a choking voice.
"It is well, then," Gaston murmured—and lay back upon the bed.
For a little while, Jean, dim-eyed, watched the other, a hundred reminiscences of their work together stabbing at his heart, and then he rose and began to remove what he could of the old fisherman's clothing.
"I will not touch the wound, Gaston," he said; "but the boots, mon brave, and—"
Gaston did not answer. He appeared to have sunk into a semi-stupor, from which even the removal of his clothes did not arouse him. Jean pulled a blanket up around the other's form, and sat down again in the chair.
Once, as Gaston muttered, Jean leaned forward toward the other.
"It is destiny—the Perigeau—the light is out—René, it is—" The words trailed off into incoherency.
The minutes passed. Occasionally, with a spoon now, Jean poured a few drops of brandy between Gaston's lips; otherwise, he sat there, his head in his hands, tight-lipped, staring at the floor. Outside, that vicious howl of wind seemed to have died away—perhaps it was hushed because old Gaston was like this—Marie-Louise had been gone a long time—presently she and Father Anton would be back, and—
He looked up to find Gaston's eyes open and fixed upon him feverishly, the lips struggling to say something.
"What is it, Gaston?" he asked.
"The light, Jean," Gaston whispered. "It is—for—the last time. Go and—light—the—great lamp."
"Yes, Gaston," Jean answered, and went from the room—but at the door he covered his face with his hands, and his shoulders shook like a child whose heart is broken, as his feet in that outer room crunched on the shattered glass of the lamp that would never burn again. He dashed the tears from his eyes, and for a moment stared unseeingly before him, then turned and went back to Gaston's side again in the inner room.
Gaston's eyes searched his face eagerly.
"It burns?" he cried out.
"It burns," said Jean steadily.
And Gaston smiled, and the stupor fell upon him again.
And then after a long time Jean heard footsteps without, then the opening of the front door—and then it seemed to Jean that a benediction had fallen upon the room.
Framed in the doorway, a little worn black bag in his hand, his soutane splashed high with mud though it was caught up now around his waist with a cord, stood Father Anton, the beloved of all Bernay-sur-Mer. And, as he stood there and the kindly blue eyes searched the figure on the bed, the fine old face, under its crown of silver hair, grew very grave—and without moving from his position he beckoned to Jean.
"Jean, my son," he said softly, "make our little Marie-Louise here put on dry clothing. I will be a little while with Gaston alone."
Marie-Louise was standing behind the priest. Father Anton stepped aside for Jean to pass—and then the door dosed quietly.
"Jean!"—she caught his arm. "Jean tell me!"
Jean did not answer—there were no words with which to answer her.
"Oh, Jean!" she said—and a little sob broke her voice.
"Go and put on dry things, Marie-Louise," he said.
"No—not now," she answered. "Give me your hand."
They stood there in the darkness. He felt her hand tremble. Neither spoke. Father Anton's voice, in a low, constant murmur, came to them now.
Her hand tightened.
"I know," she said. "It is the Sacrament."
"He said he had taught you to be never afraid," said Jean.
Her hand tightened again.
It was a long while. And then the door behind them opened, and Father Anton came between them, and drew Marie-Louise's head to his bosom and stroked her hair, and placed his other arm around Jean's shoulders—and for a moment he stood like that—and then he drew them to the window.
"See, my children," he said gently, "there are the stars, and there is peace after the storm. It is so with sorrow, for out of the blackness of grief God brings us comfort in His own good pleasure. He has called Gaston home."
III
The Beacon