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Updated: May 27, 2025
For some moments she stood motionless, then, in obedience to some strange and unaccountable instinct, she began turning up the sleeves of her rough brown dress, as if she were going to begin some kind of manual work. "The Holy Virgin comfort you, my daughter; and you, my little one," said the priest, as he stooped to lay his hand upon the golden head of the child. "Loic is dead!
"The 'patron' of the boat, Loic Plufer, was killed by the breaking of a rope, before we were out of sight of the English coast." "Ah! I am sorry. Had you time were you enabled to administer to him the Holy Rites?" "No, my father. He was killed at one blow." The Provincial laid aside his pen and leant back. His soft eyes rested steadily on the book in front of him.
Her soft, short-sighted eyes filled with a terrible, hopeless dismay as she stared at the young priest's bowed head. The women round now began to understand, and they crossed themselves with a very human prayer of thankfulness that their husbands and brothers had been spared. "Loic is dead?" she said, in a rasping voice.
Loic is dead!" spread from mouth to mouth. "That comes from having ought to do with the priests," muttered the customs officer, beneath his heavy moustache. He was an old soldier, who read the newspapers, and spoke in a loud voice on Sunday evenings in the Cafe de l'Ouest. The Abbe heard the remark, and looked at the man, but said nothing. He remembered that no Jesuit must defend himself.
She smiled still, misunderstanding his calmness. "Ah, mon pere," she said, "it is the season of the great winds now. What a long voyage it has been! And you say it is a bad one. My husband is no doubt in despair, but another voyage is sure to be better; is it not so? I have not seen Loic upon the deck, but then my sight is not good.
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