The little cure looked at his visitor with bright eyes, and a shake
of the head. A quick-spoken man this, with a little square mouth, a
soft heart, a keen sense of humour.

"Why have you got me from my bed, malcontent?" he asked.

"Because there are some out there that want your prayers," replied
Belfort, jerking his head towards the sea. He was an unbeliever,
this maimed sailor, who read the Petit Journal, and talked too
loudly in the Cafe de la Marine of an evening. He spoke mockingly
now.

"One can pray in the morning. Come with me while I get on some
clothes--if it is a wreck," said the priest, simply.

The man followed him to a little bare room, of which the walls were
decorated by two cheap sacred prints and a crucifix, such as may be
bought for ten sous at any fair on the coast.

"Never mind your hat," said the priest, seeing the man's fingers at
the strings of his sou'wester. "Give me my great boots from the
cupboard. A wreck is it? The summer storms are always the worst.
Is it a boat?"

"Who knows?" replied the man. "It is my wife who looked from the
window an hour ago, and saw a light at sea two points to the east of
north--a red light and then a green and then the masthead light."

"A steamer."