"Oh. I know more than you suspect," said the Marquis, suddenly. "There are some even in our own party who have doubts, who are not quite sure. I know that there was a doubt as to that portrait of the Queen," he half glanced toward Dormer Colville. "Some say one thing, some another. I have been told that, when the child--Monsieur de Bourbon's father--landed here, there were two portraits among his few possessions--the miniature and a larger print, an engraving. Where is that engraving, one would ask?" "I have it in my safe in Paris," said a thick voice in the darkness. "Thought it was better in my possession than anywhere else." "Indeed! And now, Monsieur Turner--" the Marquis raised himself on his knees and pointed in his eager way a thin finger in the direction of the banker--"tell me this. Those portraits to which some would attach importance--they are of the Duchess de Guiche. Admitted? Good! If you yourself--who have the reputation of being a man of wit--desired to secure the escape of a child and his nurse, would you content yourself with the mere precaution of concealing the child's identity? Would you not go farther and provide the nurse with a subterfuge, a blind, something for the woman to produce and say, 'This is not the little Dauphin. This is so-and-so. See, here is the portrait of his mother?' What so effective, I ask you? What so likely to be believed as a scandal directed against the hated aristocrats? Can you advance anything against that theory?" "No, Monsieur," replied Turner. "But Monsieur de Bourbon knows of these doubts," went on the Marquis. "They have even touched his own mind, I know that. But he has continued to fight undaunted. He has made sacrifices--any looking at his face can see that. It was not in France that he looked for happiness, but elsewhere. He was not heart-whole--I who have seen him with the most beautiful women in France paying court to him know that. But this sacrifice, also, he made for the sake of France. Or perhaps some woman of whom we know nothing stepped back and bade him go forward alone, for the sake of his own greatness--who can tell?" Again no one answered him. He had not perceived Miriam, and John Turner, with that light step which sometimes goes with a vast bulk, had placed himself between her and the firelight. Monsieur de Gemosac rose to his feet and stood looking seaward. The snow-clouds were rolling away to the west, and the moon, breaking through, was beginning to illumine the wild sky. "Gentlemen," said the Marquis, "they have been gone a long time?" Captain Clubbe moved restlessly, but he made no answer. The Marquis had, of course, spoken in French, and the Captain had no use for that language. The group round the fire had dwindled until only half a dozen remained. One after another the watchers had moved away uneasily toward the beach. The Marquis was right--the boat had been gone too long. At last the moon broke through, and the snowy scene was almost as light as day.