The sailor pulled his forelock. "Not very likely, sir, saving your presence," he returned, with a grin. "'Twould take a vessel of more tonnage than you has to sink Tom Richards!" "I love these good mariners!" observed the Bishop, as the two priests made their way to the edge of the quay and looked down. The corvette's boat was already there, landing her cargo of battered and broken men. So the Bishop stationed himself at the top of the steps, and as they came up he spoke to each, asking his name, where he was going, if he had need of anything. Last of all came a tall, gaunt man in English uniform who seemed rather dazed, and was helped by two sailors up the steps. When his supporters abandoned him he sat down on a bollard and put his right hand over his eyes. His left sleeve hung empty. Perceiving his condition the Bishop did not address him directly, but applied for information about him to the lieutenant of the régiment de Rohan with whom he had last been conversing. "No one at Houat knew exactly who he was, Monseigneur," replied the French officer, glancing over his shoulder. "He was found half-dead on the rocks there as long ago as August, and he was ill for months afterwards from wounds and exposure. Neither then nor since has he been able to give much account of himself--he seems to have lost his memory--though from the few rags remaining on him when he was discovered it was supposed that he had been one of the Chouan leaders." "Thank you, Monsieur," said the Bishop. He went over, with compassion in his face, to the seated man, and touched him on the shoulder. "My son," he said, "is there anything that I can do for you?" "This is St. Helier, is it not?" answered the other in a dulled voice, without looking up. "If you could kindly take me to where my mother lives. I . . . I have been ill . . . and I do not think I could find the way." The Bishop paused a moment, then he said, very gently, "This is not Jersey, my child; it is Portsmouth." "Portsmouth," repeated the émigré, in the same uninterested tone. "Not Jersey--Portsmouth. But she is not at Portsmouth----" Then he looked up, and his eyes, full of fever though they were, knew the man who was speaking to him for a bishop of his own Church. "But they shot you at Vannes, Monseigneur, with Sombreuil!" The old man guessed to whom he was referring. "God rest his soul!" he said, signing himself. "But you mistake, my son; I am not the Bishop of Dol, and this is England. What are you going to do?" The Frenchman got to his feet. "I?" he said, and laughed a little. "Why, I should have been shot at Auray, Monseigneur . . . or at Quiberon. . . . It would have been better. . . . But I am here. . . . God knows why." He sat down again on the bollard. Monseigneur beckoned to his Grand Vicar. Then he turned again to the émigré. "My son," he said, "you will come home with me. It is not far. Come, take my arm!"