And there, after a space, he found her, among the golden brands of the gorse, looking out to sea in the direction of the coast of France. The wind blew against her; she shaded her eyes with her hand under her little three-cornered hat, as from the lovely land of exile she gazed intently at a dearer shore. She did not see him, nor, from the talk of the wind in her ears, hear his footsteps brushing through the gorse--and Fortuné stopped short, for now that he beheld her again with his bodily eyes he knew that his desire for her was even greater than he had thought, and in proportion the fear swelled in him to conviction that so great a gift could never be meant for him. So he stood there bareheaded in the sunshine, his heart mingled flame and water, aching to see her hidden face, and yet afraid to put his destiny to the touch. But at last, since she was still unconscious of his presence, he was forced to make it known. "Madame!" And at that she turned round with a start. Colour swept over her face and was gone again, and in her eyes there was something that was almost fear. "Monsieur . . . de la Vireville!" she exclaimed, on a sharp catch of the breath. It was the first time, as he instantly realised, that she had ever called him by his name, that name which was dipped for her in such painful memories. "Me voici!" said he, and casting his hat on to a gorse bush advanced to kiss her hand. "I . . . I am not sure . . . that you are not a ghost!" she said, not very steadily, as she surrendered it. "Indeed I am not!" he unnecessarily assured her, for the kiss he put on it must have convinced her that he was flesh and blood, and perhaps the wave of colour which once more dyed her face derived its temperature from the warmth of that salutation. "But you . . . M. le Chevalier, but you _have_ returned from the dead! They told me you had been shot!" "Yes, I _have_ returned from the dead," agreed Fortuné--"for a purpose." She did not ask what the purpose was; she still seemed shaken, uncertain of herself and of him. But her gaze, swift and compassionate, swept over everything that the sunlight showed so relentlessly--the traces of past suffering on his face, the added grey at his temples, and the pinned-up sleeve. "Ah, que vous avez dû souffrir!" she said to herself. Then she put her hand to her head, as if she still felt herself in a dream. "But where have you come from, M. le Chevalier?" she asked. "And why are you here, in Sark?" He looked at her full, and answered bluntly, "To ask you to marry me!" But as, giving an exclamation, she turned away, he hastily abandoned this ground.