"You would be better in the cabin," said his brother. He went down, but
came up again in an hour, not caring to be alone. And, besides, he
preferred the fresh air. He sat down again on his sail and began to bathe
his arm.

They made a good haul. The broad fish with their white bellies lay beside
him, quivering in the throes of death; he looked at them as he continued
to bathe his crushed flesh.

As they were about to return to Boulogne the wind sprang up anew, and the
little boat resumed its mad course, bounding and tumbling about, shaking
up the poor wounded man.

Night came on. The sea ran high until dawn. As the sun rose the English
coast was again visible, but, as the weather had abated a little, they
turned back towards the French coast, tacking as they went.

Towards evening Javel, junior, called his comrades and showed them some
black spots, all the horrible tokens of mortification in the portion of
the arm below the broken bones.

The sailors examined it, giving their opinion.

"That might be the 'Black,'" thought one.

"He should put salt water on it," said another.

They brought some salt water and poured it on the wound. The injured man
became livid, ground his teeth and writhed a little, but did not exclaim.