When I returned to my room to tell him that he was to be put in irons, I
found him sitting on my bed, his fists and teeth clenched with rage. His
passionate Breton temper had got possession of him.
Stamping his foot, he declared that he would not go--it was too
unjust!--unless they carried him by force, and that he would kill the
first man that came to take him.
Then I saw that he was lost indeed, and my heart ached for him. What
could be done? The guard was there, outside my door, waiting to lead him
away and I dared not open; seconds and minutes passed and I could find
no pretext for further delay.
An idea came to me, suddenly: I entreated him very gently, in the name
of his mother, reminding him of my oath and, for the second time in my
life, calling him brother.
Yves wept. It was over; he was vanquished and docile.
I threw some water over his forehead, adjusted his shirt a little and
opened my door. All this had not lasted three minutes.
The guard appeared. He rose and followed, meek as a child. He looked
back and smiled at me, went and replied with calmness to the
interrogatory of the Commander, and proceeded peacefully to the hold to
be put in irons.
About midnight, when this arduous watch was over, I went to bed, sending
to Yves a blanket and a cloak. (For the nights already were cold.) And
this in my helplessness was all that I could now do for him.