"Here they are. Oh, never mind--we will settle in town. Try to sleep. You must be very tired." And then it seemed to him that her lips trembled, like those of a miserable child; and surely, surely, she must hear that mad beating of his pulse! Boulogne was gone in a flash. Here was the Somme, stretched in a pale silver flood beneath the moon--a land of dunes and stunted pines, of wide sea-marshes, over which came the roar of the Channel. Then again the sea was left behind, and the rich Picard country rolled away to right and left. Lights here and there, in cottage or villa--the lights, perhaps, of birth or death--companions of hope or despair. Calais! The train moved slowly up to the boat-side. Delafield jumped out. The sleeping-car was yielding up its passengers. He soon made out the small black hat and veil, the slender form in the dark travelling-dress. Was she fainting? For she seemed to him to waver as he approached her, and the porter who had taken her rugs and bag was looking at her in astonishment. In an instant he had drawn her arm within his, and was supporting her as he best could, "The car was very hot, and I am so tired. I only want some air." They reached the deck. "You will go down-stairs?" "No, no--some air!" she murmured, and he saw that she could hardly keep her feet. But in a few moments they had reached the shelter on the upper deck usually so well filled with chairs and passengers on a day crossing. Now it was entirely deserted. The boat was not full, the night was cold and stormy, and the stream of passengers had poured down into the shelter of the lower deck. Julie sank into a chair. Delafield hurriedly loosened the shawl she carried with her from its attendant bag and umbrella, and wrapped it round her. "It will be a rough crossing," he said, in her ear. "Can you stand it on deck?" "I am a good sailor. Let me stay here." Her eyes closed. He stooped over her in an anguish. One of the boat officials approached him. "Madame ferait mieux de descendre, monsieur. La traversée ne sera pas bonne." Delafield explained that the lady must have air, and was a good sailor. Then he pressed into the man's hand his three francs, and sent him for brandy and an extra covering of some kind. The man went unwillingly. During the whole bustle of departure, Delafield saw nothing but Julie's helpless and motionless form; he heard nothing but the faint words by which, once or twice, she tried to convey to him that she was not unconscious. The brandy came. The man who brought it again objected to Julie's presence on deck. Delafield took no heed. He was absorbed in making Julie swallow some of the brandy. At last they were off. The vessel glided slowly out of the old harbor, and they were immediately in rough water. Delafield was roused by a peremptory voice at his elbow. "This lady ought not to stay here, sir. There is plenty of room in the ladies' cabin."