“_Sussex Queen_, Cap’n George, sailed an hour ago.” “Any passengers, mate?” “Lady and gen’leman, came in the coach yonder. Took a lot o’ stuff aboard.” Isaac leaned heavily on his stick for a moment, one hand fumbling at the butts of the pistols under his coat. The fellow in the smock stared at him, and then went on talking, beating one heavy boot on the stone paving of the quay. “Damned rough weather comin’. Rather be ashore meself than out in the Channel with this sou’wester.” Isaac nodded, yet did not follow what the fellow said. “You look cold, father; have a nip at the Royal Harry. What—” He stopped open-mouthed, for Isaac had turned, and was limping away towards the town. The sailor watched him curiously, thinking the old man in his dotage, and that he had wasted his pity on such a crab-apple. He saw Isaac cross the roadway and disappear up an alley that led towards the low cliffs above the beach. Old Grimshaw’s body seemed like a dry leaf quivering in the wind as he forced his way forward against the growing gale. A haze of rain was drifting over the sea, yet far beyond the gray fringe thereof the vague whiteness of a sail showed above the foam. Isaac, breathless and half fainting, leaned upon his stick, and stared out over the waste of waters. The rain came beating on him, and the wind flicked the wet brim of his hat into his face. But still he stood there like some inexorable harbinger of evil, and cursed Bess and the ship that carried her towards the shores of France. XLVIII The storm that swept the Channel in the summer of 17—, was long remembered by the folk along the Sussex coast. Hail fell in many places, and fierce squalls of wind, like huge beasts galloping with the lesser herd, uprooted trees, sent chimneys crashing through the roofs, and scattered tiles in many a street. At one village the church-spire fell, and all along the coast ran the rumor of ships lost and fishing-vessels caught in the storm. Off the French coast, and still tangled in the lifting fringes of the night, the _Sussex Queen_ lay rolling heavily with the waves washing her lower decks. A squall had struck her soon after sundown, beaten down her masts, and left her drifting like a wounded gull with wings trailing in the water. Two men had been killed by the falling of the masts, and another washed overboard by a heavy sea. All through the night the pumps had been clanging, and water gushing from the brig’s black sides. About two o’clock in the morning Captain George lurched down the short stairway leading to the poop-cabin. He was bleeding from a wound over the left temple and had the look of a man who was utterly unnerved. Moreover, he smelled of liquor, and his great raw hands trembled as he fumbled at the latch of the cabin door.