“He is not dead. And if he were,” she added, “do you think, monsieur, that we should find it easier to cross the gulf between us?” “Tut! tut! that bugbear love!” he said, shortly. “And so you’d lose a good friend for a dead lover? I’ faith, I’d befriend thee well if thou wert my wife, ma’m’selle.” “It is hard for those who need friends to lose them,” she answered, sadly. The sorrow of her position crept in upon her and filled her eyes with tears. She turned them to the sea--instinctively towards that point on the shore where she thought it likely Michel might be--as though by looking she might find comfort and support in this hard hour. Even as she gazed into the soft afternoon light she could see, far over, a little sail standing out towards the Ecréhos. Not once in six months might the coast of France be seen so clearly. One might almost have noted people walking on the beach. This was no good token, for when that coast may be seen with great distinctness a storm follows hard after. The girl knew this, and, though she could not know that this was Michel de la Forêt’s boat, the possibility fixed itself in her mind. She quickly scanned the horizon. Yes, there in the northwest was gathering a dark-blue haze, hanging like small, filmy curtains in the sky. The Seigneur of Rozel presently broke the silence so awkward for him. He had seen the tears in her eyes, and, though he could not guess the cause, he vaguely thought it might be due to his announcement that she had lost a friend. He was magnanimous at once, and he meant what he said, and would stand by it through thick and thin. “Well, well, I’ll be thy everlasting friend if not thy husband,” he said, with ornate generosity. “Cheer thy heart, lady.” With a sudden impulse she seized his hand and kissed it, and, turning, ran swiftly down the rocks towards her home. He stood and looked after her, then, dumfounded, at the hand she had kissed. “Blood of my heart!” he said, and shook his head in utter amazement. Then he turned and looked out upon the Channel. He saw the little boat Angèle had descried making from France. Glancing at the sky, “What fools come there!” he said, anxiously. They were Michel de la Forêt and Buonespoir the pirate, in a black-bellied cutter with red sails. III For weeks De la Forêt and Buonespoir had lain in hiding at St. Brieuc. At last Buonespoir declared all was ready once again. He had secured for the Camisard the passport and clothes of a priest who had but just died at Granville. Once again they made the attempt to reach English soil.