The man gazed round him, then made slowly toward the sea. The sodden earth and wide logs impeded him; he trod cautiously, but for all his ease sank now and then to his ankles in mud or half-fell over the broken stones and boulders. Slowly he made painful progress to the edge of the fen where it dipped in a sudden slope of clay straight onto the beach. There halting he stared out to sea; the snow and the rising mist of the winter night hid all from him save the line of waves breaking on the wet sand; melancholy and terrible was the perfect loneliness; the watcher drew himself up and looked back at the light, then round again at the ghastly yellow sunset that seemed to be far distant; a mere slash of gloomy color in the mist and gray. Then suddenly he drew back; a little boat was pushing through the waves; he could hear the grind of the keel on the pebbles as it struck on the beach and a man leaped from it into the surf. The man upon the shore watched him struggling up the beach, saw him turn and wave to his companion as the boat disappeared again into the mist, then advance as rapidly as he was able toward the ridge of the fen. The sun faded to a mere stain; the mist drifted off the sea mingled with sleet and snow; the man on the beach drew nearer the other, all unconscious that any soul was watching him. With labor and difficulty he threaded his way onward and up the shelving ledge, the other watching him the while as he drew nearer, nearer. Suddenly they met—face to face—a few yards apart; the new-comer stood motionless with surprise and his hand flew to his sword. “For which King?” cried the man in waiting. His voice sounded strange and hollow through the damp silence; the new arrival drew a step nearer, searching the strange figure; he was a slight, fair young man and showed a face white and strained. “Which King?” he repeated, moistening his lips. “Are there two?” came the answer from the folds of the heavy cloak. “I stand for King James.” “Ah!” with a sigh of relief the young man relaxed the tension of his attitude. “You were sent to meet me then?” “Yes,” said the other quietly, “to take your papers.” “My papers?” the new arrival again showed alarm. “I am to take them to London.” “I will take them to London.” “Sir, your authority?” “The King’s.” The messenger smiled, regaining his presence of mind. “Sir, I pray you show it me—this is a strange request—I go to Hunt’s hut; will you accompany me?” “Yes—but first your papers.” The Jacobite laughed. “You grow peremptory—let me pass.” “I desire your papers.” “I will not part with them.” “It were wiser.” “Do you threaten me?” “By God, yes!” The King’s messenger laughed again; his eyes blazed in a white face. “William of Orange is ill-served in such clumsy knaves as you!” he cried. “Give me the papers, damn you!” “Do you think me a traitor?” “By God—I know you a fool!” “Stand out of my way!” and the messenger made a step forward, but the other seized him by the arm.