Geneviève looked at her husband, but without understanding what he meant.
"It is now high-water," continued Mathieu; "in less than an hour the sea will have gone down enough to leave only four feet of water upon the line of reefs that runs from Trébéron to the Ile des Morts. With courage, and by the help of God, the passage may be tried. I am going to carry the child over to Dorot."
And as the mother could not restrain a cry of terror;
"Speak lower, unhappy one!" he added vehemently; "are you desirous of betraying me? Except the Superintendent of the powder-magazine and myself, no one knows the way. We have often passed along it when we were fishing together, and always passed it safely."
"But not at night," interrupted Geneviève; "not burdened with a child."
"The child weighs scarcely anything, and the moon is full," replied Ropars somewhat impatiently. "Besides, I have been thinking of it all the evening; and there is no other means. My mind is made up, and I shall do what must be done, happen what may. Your remarks may lessen my confidence, but cannot hold me back. Try rather, then, to brace up my nerves, as is the duty of a brave wife, and to prepare the child to go. When the outer point of the high rock is bare, it will be time for me to make the attempt, and for you to pray God that he may open us a way of safety in the sea."
The quarter-master's tone was so determined, that Geneviève saw at once the uselessness of resistance. With little will of his own in the ordinary transactions of life, Mathieu rarely formed a resolution; but, once decided on, he maintained it immovably. Moreover, when the first shock was passed, his explanations and assurances somewhat tranquilized Francine's mother, and indeed half convinced her. There remained the child, whose opposition or fright was apprehended by Ropars. Geneviève went and raised her up from the ground, and the father and the mother seated her upon their knees, which they purposely placed close together.
"You want to see the cherry-tree in blossom, don't you?" said the former, embracing her.
"Not any more, now," was the low-toned reply.
"Nay, nay, it is just the time," added the poor mother with an effort; "over there, you will be more at liberty ... happier ... you'll have Michael for a play-fellow."
"No," said the child with changing voice, "I would rather stay with Josèphe."
Geneviève clasped her hands and closed her eyes; speech failed her. It was Ropars' turn. Drawing Francine close up to his breast, and whispering in her ear,
"Listen," said he; "we are in trouble. You would not wish to make it worse, would you? You love us too well for that."
In place of answer, the child threw both her arms about her father's neck, and pressed her little rosy cheek against the wrinkled cheek of the mariner.

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