“Is that you, Turner?” he said. “We are all here,--the Marquis, Barebone, and I. Clubbe took us on board one dark night in the Gironde and brought us home.” “Are you hurt?” asked Turner, curtly. “Oh, no. But Clubbe's collar-bone is broken and his leg is crushed. We had to leave four on board; not room for them in the boat. That fool Barebone has gone back for them. He promised them he would. The sea out there is awful!” He knelt down and held his shaking hands to the flames. Some one handed him a bottle, but he turned first and gave it the Marquis de Gemosac, who was shaking all over like one far gone in a palsy. Sea Andrew and the coast-guard captain were persuading Captain Clubbe to quit the beach, but he only answered them roughly in monosyllables. “My place is here till all are safe,” he said. “Let me lie.” And with a groan of pain he lay back on the beach. Miriam folded a blanket and placed it under his head. He looked round, recognised her and nodded. “No place for you, miss,” he said, and closed his eyes. After a moment he raised himself on his elbow and looked into the faces peering down at him. “Loo will beach her anywhere he can. Keep a bright lookout for him,” he said. Then he was silent, and all turned their faces toward the sea. Another snow-squall swept in with a rush from the eastward, and half of the fire was blown away--a trail of sparks hissing on the snow. They built up the fire again and waited, crouching low over the embers. They could see nothing out to sea. There was nothing to be done but to wait. Some had gone along the shore to the south, keeping pace with the supposed progress of the boat, ready to help should she be thrown ashore. Suddenly the Marquis de Gemosac, shivering over the fire, raised his voice querulously. His emotions always found vent in speech. “It is a folly,” he repeated, “that he has committed. I do not understand, gentlemen, how he was permitted to do such a thing--he whose life is of value to millions.” He turned his head to glance sharply at Captain Clubbe, at Colville, at Turner, who listened with that half-contemptuous silence which Englishmen oppose to unnecessary or inopportune speech. “Ah!” he said, “you do not understand--you Englishmen--or you do not believe, perhaps, that he is the King. You would demand proofs which you know cannot be produced. I demand no proofs, for I know. I know without any proof at all but his face, his manner, his whole being. I knew at once when I saw him step out of his boat here in this sad village, and I have lived with him almost daily ever since--only to be more sure than at first.” His hearers made no answer. They listened tolerantly enough, as one listens to a child or to any other incapable of keeping to the business in hand.