At eight o'clock the next day we found, by the aid of the glass,
that two of the ship's boats were out at sea, quite full of men.
They had seen us, and had done their best to make us see them,
and in half an hour we came up with them.

It would be a hard task for me to set forth in words the scene
which took place in my ship, when the poor French folk (for such
they were) came on board. As to grief and fear, these are soon
told--sighs, tears, and groans make up the sum of them--but such
a cause of joy as this was, in sooth, too much for them to bear,
weak and all but dead as they were.

Some would send up shouts of joy that rent the sky; some would
cry and wring their hands as if in the depths of grief; some
would dance, laugh, and sing; not a few were dumb, sick, faint,
in a swoon, or half mad; and two or three were seen to give
thanks to God.

In this strange group, there was a young French priest who did
his best to soothe those round him, and I saw him go up to some
of the crew, and say to them, "Why do you scream, and tear your
hair, and wring your hands, my men? Let your joy be free and
full, give it full range and scope, but leave off this trick of
the hands, and lift them up in praise; let your voice swell out,
not in screams, but in hymns of thanks to God, who has brought
you out of so great a strait, for this will add peace to your
joy."

The next day, they were all in a right frame of mind, so I gave
them what stores I could spare, and put them on board a ship that