The two piers of Dunkirk stretch far out into the sea. The wedding-party occupied the whole width of the northern pier, and soon reached a small house situated at its extremity, inhabited by the harbor-master. The wind freshened, and the Jeune-Hardie ran swiftly under her topsails, mizzen, brigantine, gallant, and royal. Jean Cornbutte, spyglass in hand, responded merrily to the questions of his friends.
"See my ship!" he cried; "clean and steady as if she had been rigged at Dunkirk! Not a bit of damage done,—not a rope wanting!"
"Do you see your son, the captain?" asked one.
"No, not yet. Why, he's at his business!"
"Why doesn't he run up his flag?" asked Clerbaut.
"I scarcely know. He has a reason for it, I have no doubt."
"Your spy-glass, uncle?" said Marie, taking it from him. "I want to be the first to see him."
"But he is my son, mademoiselle!"
"He has been your son for thirty years," answered the young girl, laughing, "and he has only been my betrothed for two!"
The Jeune-Hardie was now entirely visible. Already the crew were preparing to cast anchor. The upper sails had been reefed. The sailors who were among the rigging might be recognized. But neither Marie nor Jean Cornbutte had yet been able to wave their hands at the captain of the ship.
"There's the mate, André Vasling," cried Clerbaut.
"There's Fidèle, the carpenter," said another.
"And our friend Penellan," said a third, saluting the sailor named.
The Jeune-Hardie was only three cables' lengths from the shore, when a black flag ascended to the gaff of the brigantine. There was mourning on board the boat. A shudder of terror seized the party and the heart of the young girl.
The ship sadly swayed into port, and an icy silence reigned on its deck. Soon it had passed the end of the pier. Marie, Jean Cornbutte, and all their friends hurried towards the quay at which she was to anchor, and in a moment found themselves on board.
