The boat which had landed him, with its muffled oars, was already out of hearing, though it was still visible, a lessening dark lump upon the quiet sea. Even the lugger, farther out, could almost be discerned by one who knew where to look for her, though the moon which, a week ago, had lighted the way to Jersey for Anne-Hilarion, was obscured this evening. La Vireville glanced about the beach. As far as could be ascertained in the dusk, it was quite deserted; there was no sound but the lap of the incoming tide, and no sign whatever of Grain d'Orge, who should of course have been there to meet him. And, since the émigré had no acquaintance with these few miles of coast, without a guide he was helpless; an attempt to penetrate inland would probably end in his running into an enemy patrol--in spite of the truce, the last thing he wished to do--and even in Porhoët village he had no idea which house he was to make for. Moreover, he was lame--a great deal more lame than he had had any idea of, or he would hardly have landed. . . . And, cursing Grain d'Orge, he began to limp away from the water's edge. In any case, it would be more prudent to approach the low cliffs, where it was darker, than to stand where he was; and under the cliffs, if nothing better offered, he must wait for his dilatory guide. M. de la Vireville went painfully over the tract of large, rolling pebbles between him and the cliffs, the sweat breaking out on his forehead; but, not having 'chouanné' for nothing, he set his teeth and persevered, throwing his weight as much as possible on his sound foot and on the stick with which the captain of the _Seaflower_ had furnished him. "Devilish odd I must look from the cliff," he reflected, "if there's a patrol up there." But, apparently, there was no patrol, and having pursued his way unmolested up the purgatorial bank he sat down, with a sigh of relief, his back against the cliff, and waited, either for discovery or guidance. "There is at least one thing to be thankful for," he reflected, "and that is, that I have not the child with me now." But all the same it seemed strange not to have him, and to know no anxiety but for his own personal safety--a burden he was so accustomed to carrying that he scarcely felt its weight. * * * * * La Vireville had been there, propped against the cliff, for perhaps half an hour, before he heard the owl's cry. He answered it faintly and cautiously, perceiving, to his astonishment, that it came from seaward, and in a little beheld the dim figure of a man detach itself from an overturned boat on the shingle. As it came towards him it looked, by some trick of the faint light, as unreal as the little bay itself, though it wore the usual peasant's costume, appropriate enough to the scene, and had over its shoulder a large net. When this individual was within distance, La Vireville told him softly what he thought of him, for the apparition was Grain d'Orge.