the shore, and each one, as he pushed on bravely towards the light,
seemed to hear the voice of his fellow crying, "Courage!" through all
the roaring of the surf; yet no one had spoken a word--so absorbed was
each by his own peril. In this way they reached the shore.

When they were all seated near the fisherman's fire, they looked round
in vain for their guide with the light about him. The sea washed up
the steersman at the base of the cliff on which the cottage stood; he
was clinging with might and main to the plank as a sailor can cling
when death stares him in the face; the MAN went down and rescued the
almost exhausted seaman; then he said, as he held out a succoring hand
above the man's head:

"Good, for this once; but do not try it again; the example would be
too bad."

He took the skipper on his shoulders, and carried him to the
fisherman's door; knocked for admittance for the exhausted man; then,
when the door of the humble refuge opened, the Saviour disappeared.

The Convent of Mercy was built for sailors on this spot, where for
long afterwards (so it was said) the footprints of Jesus Christ could
be seen in the sand; but in 1793, at the time of the French invasion,
the monks carried away this precious relic, that bore witness to the
Saviour's last visit to earth.



There at the convent I found myself shortly after the Revolution of
1830. I was weary of life. If you had asked me the reason of my