He could not see their faces, but could dimly make out this squalid, ragged crowd of wretches, beaten in the struggle for life, worn out and crushed, setting forth, each with a starving wife and weakly children, for an unknown land where they hoped, perhaps, not to die of hunger.

And as he thought of their past labour--wasted labour, and barren effort--of the mortal struggle taken up afresh and in vain each day, of the energy expended by this tattered crew who were going to begin again, not knowing where, this life of hideous misery, he longed to cry out to them: "Tumble yourselves overboard, rather, with your women and your little ones." And his heart ached so with pity that he went away unable to endure the sight.
He found his father, his mother, Jean, and Mme.

Rosemilly waiting for him in his cabin.
"So early!" he exclaimed.
"Yes," said Mme.

Roland in a trembling voice.

"We wanted to have a little time to see you." He looked at her.