Captain George had taken Bess to the state cabin under the poop, a dark den of a place whose stern windows gave a last view of the little town and the green flats that stretched beyond. Jeffray stayed with her a moment, and then went on deck, to find the _Sussex Queen_ gliding out from the harbor’s mouth. Captain George was standing on the quarter-deck, trumpet in hand. The boatswain’s whistle piped, and the men went swarming up the rigging to loose the sails, and give the ship her wings for France. Bess joined Jeffray on the quarter-deck, with her old scarlet cloak about her, and the hood turned forward over her coal-black hair. They stood close together, looking at the stretch of gray and white-maned sea. It was cheerless and threatening, a wild waste of waters tossing under a sullen sky. The sails were bellying out above, and the bluff bows of the brig began to plunge and buffet with the waves. Soon the Newhaven men dropped the tow-ropes, and pulled back to harbor with a faint cheer. The whistling breeze, the creaking and straining of the cordage, the salt spume flying with the wind, even these could not chill the hearts of the two who watched the white shores dwindling beyond the waves. They stood close to the bulwarks, Bess with her cloak wrapped round her and Jeffray’s arm about her body. England was sinking into the north, and the cliffs grew gray and ghostly under the hurrying sky. Bess turned and looked into Jeffray’s eyes, wondering whether there was any sadness for him in this going forth into the unknown. He seemed to guess what was in her heart, and holding her close to him, gazed back towards England with a quiet smile. “Bess, I am thinking that you are safe with me at last.” “Isaac cannot follow us over the sea.” “No, we are rid of the past. And you are not afraid?” “No, I am very happy.” He buttoned the red cloak close about her throat, for the wind was keen and the scud flying. “Take a last look at England for some years,” he said. Peter Gladden and the Rodenham servants were still drinking and gossiping at the Royal Harry, when Isaac Grimshaw came limping down the street, with the brim of his battered beaver flapping over his face, and his holly stick tapping the stones. He looked worn out and weary, yet spiteful to the last stride. Isaac saw the Rodenham coach waiting outside the inn, and his face flushed almost boyishly, as though Bess and her lover were still within reach of his pistol’s snout. Slinking past the Royal Harry and meeting the full fluster of the wind, he made for the quay where a few fishermen were idling before the warehouses. Isaac hailed a tall fellow in heavy sea-boots and a filthy smock, and stood leaning on his stick, and looking back at the inn with the great coach waiting in the roadway. “Good-day, mate; fresh breeze this. Any shipping moving?” The man in the smock leaned against a windlass as though for a gossip, and then cocked his head towards the sea.