Chamberss Edinburgh Journal, No. 429 | Page 7

in agony.
'You were right, girl,' he groaned; 'I see it now, when it is too late, and I

feel I have deserved it.'
'Better,' sobbed Madeleine, 'better be here, than have imbrued your
hands in the blood of one of those miraculously-delivered sailors.'
'Say you so, woman?' said a loud voice near her. 'Then you are not one
of the gang. I knew them of old, as well as their infernal cut-throat
gorge, and pulled straight for it, but quite prepared to give them a warm
reception.'
Madeleine looked up. She saw around her more than fifty men, three
women, and some children. She shuddered again at the thought of the
awful massacre which would have occurred but for the sailor's
prudence.
'My good girl,' continued the man, 'we are cold, wet, and hungry; can
you shew us to some shelter?'
'Yes; but do you bid some of your men carry my father, who, I fear, is
dying.'
'It is no more than he merits,' replied the man; 'but for your sake I will
have him taken care of.'
'It is what I merit,' said Pierre, in a strange and loud tone; 'but not from
your hands, Jacques.'
'Merciful God!' cried the sailor, 'whose voice is that?'
'You will soon know; but do as your sister bids you, and then we can
talk more at ease.'
Madeleine cast herself sobbing into her brother's arms, who, gently
disengaging her, had a litter prepared for his father, and then, guided by
Madeleine, the procession advanced on its way. An armed party
marched at the head, and in a quarter of an hour the village of
Montreaux was reached. It was entirely deserted. There were fires in
the houses, and lamps lit, and even suppers prepared, but not a living

thing. Even the children and old women on hearing the discharge of
musketry, had fled to a cave where they sometimes took shelter when
the coast-guard was sent in search of them.
The delighted sailors and passengers spread themselves through the
village, took possession of the houses, ate the suppers, and slept in the
beds, taking care, however, to place four sentries in well-concealed
positions, for fear of a surprise. Madeleine, her father, her brother, the
ship's surgeon, and a young lady passenger, came to the house of old
Sandeau, who was put to bed, and his wounds dressed. He said nothing,
but went to sleep, or feigned to do so.
Supper was then put upon the table, and the four persons above
mentioned sat down, for a few minutes in silence. Jacques, the captain
of the East-Indiaman, looked moody and thoughtful. He said not a
word. Suddenly, however, he was roused by hearing the young surgeon
of the Jeune Sophie speak.
'Madeleine,' said he, in a gentle but still much agitated tone of voice,
'how is it I find you here--you whom I left at St Omer?'
'Is this, then, the Madeleine you so often speak of?' cried the astonished
sailor.
'It is. But speak, my dear friend.'
'Edouard, I am here because yonder is my father, and it is my duty to be
where he is.'
'But why is your father here?' continued the other.
'I am here,' said the old man, fiercely turning round, 'because I am at
war with the world. For a trifling error, I was dismissed the command
of this very Jeune Sophie twelve years ago. I vowed revenge, and you
see the kind of revenge I have selected.'
'Dear father,' said Madeleine gently, 'see what an escape you have had!'

'Besides,' interposed Jacques, 'there was no occasion for revenge. M.
Ponceau, who had adopted me, searched for you far and wide, to give
you another ship. They dismissed you in a moment of anger. They
proved this, by giving me the command of the Jeune Sophie as soon as
I could be trusted with it.'
'What is done is done,' said Pierre, 'and I am a wrecker! I have done
wrong, but I am punished. Jacques, my boy, take away Madeleine; I see
this life is not fit for her. If I recover, I shall remain, and become the
trader of the village'----
'No, father, you must come with us,' observed Jacques sadly. 'You and I
and Madeleine will find some quiet spot, where none will know of the
past, and where we ourselves may learn to forget. I have already saved
enough to support us.'
'And your wife, sir?' said the young lady, who had not hitherto spoken.
'Leonie, you can never marry me now. You are no fit mate for the son
of a wrecker.'
'Jacques,' interposed the young surgeon, 'neither you nor Madeleine has
any right to suffer for the errors of your father. I made the acquaintance
of your sister at my aunt's school