of a
slave. Meroe told in turn what had occurred to her. The couple concluded
that Caesar, half drunk, had at first yielded to a foul thought, but
that Meroe's desperate resolve, backed up by the reflection that he was
running the risk of estranging a fugitive from whom he might reap good
service, had curbed the Roman's passion. With his habitual trickery and
address, he had given, under the pretext of a "trial," an almost
generous appearance to the odious attempt.

CHAPTER IV.

THE TRIAL.

The next morning Caesar, accompanied by his generals, set out for the
bank which commanded the mouth of the Loire, where a tent had been set
up for him. From this place the sea and its dangerous shores, strewn
with sand-bars and rocks level with the water, could be seen in the
distance. The wind was blowing a gale. Moored to the bank was a
fisherman's boat, at once solid and light, rigged Gallic fashion, with
one square sail with flaps cut in its lower edge. To this craft Albinik
and Meroe were forthwith conducted.

"It is stormy, the sea is menacing," said the interpreter to them. "Will
you dare to venture it alone with your wife? There are some fishermen
here who have been taken prisoners--do you want their help?"

"My wife and I have before now braved tempests alone in our boat, when
we made for my ship, anchored far out from shore on account of bad
weather."

"But now you are maimed," answered the interpreter. "How will you be
able to manage!"

"One hand is enough for the tiller. My companion will raise the
sail--the woman's business, since it is a sort of cloth," gaily added
the mariner to give the Romans faith in him.

"Go ahead then," said the interpreter. "May the gods direct you."

The bark, pushed into the waves by several soldiers, rocked a minute
under the flappings of the sail, which had not yet caught the wind. But
soon, held by Meroe, while her husband managed the tiller, the sail
filled, and bellied out to the blast. The boat leaned gently, and seemed
to fly over the crests of the waves like a sea-bird. Meroe, dressed in
her mariner's costume, stayed at the prow, her black hair streaming in
the wind. Occasionally the white foam of the ocean, bursting from the
prow of the boat, flung its stinging froth in the young woman's noble
face. Albinik knew these coasts as the ferryman of the solitary moors of
Brittany knows their least detours. The bark seemed to play with the
high waves. From time to time