Suddenly the old man plunged his hand into the breast-pocket of his coat. He appeared to be tugging wildly at some article which was caught in the lining of his clothes, when a remarkable change came over his face. A dull red colour flew to his cheeks, and his eyes gleamed ruddily, as if shot with blood. Then without a word he fell forward with his breast against the painted rail, remained there a second, and as the two ships passed away from each other, rolled over upon his back on the clean deck, grasping a pistol in his right hand. Christian Vellacott sat still upon the rail, swinging one leg, and smiling reflectively. He saw the old man fall and the other passengers crowd round him, but the _Agnes and Mary_ had now caught the breeze and was moving rapidly out to sea, where the sunlight danced upon the water in little golden bars. “Apperlexy!” said a voice in the journalist's ear. He turned and found Captain Lebrun standing at his side looking after the steamer. “Apperlexy!” “Do you think so?” asked Christian. “I do,” was the reply, given with some conviction. “I seen a man fall just like that; he was a broad-built man wi' a thick neck, and in a moment of excitement he fell just like that, and died a'most at once. Apperlexy they said it was.” “It seemed to come over him very suddenly, did it not?” said Christian absently. “Ay, it did,” said the captain. “Ye seemed to know him!” Christian turned and looked his companion full in the face. “I have met him twice,” he said quietly. “He was in England for some years, I believe; a political refugee, he called himself.” By sea and land Captain Lebrun had learnt to devote an exclusive attention to his own affairs, allowing other men to manage theirs, well or ill, according to their fancy. He knew that Christian Vellacott wished to tell him no more, and he was content that it should be so, but he had noticed a circumstance which, from the young journalist's position, was probably invisible. He turned to give an order to the man at the wheel, and then walked slowly and with some difficulty (for Captain Lebrun suffered, in a quiet way, agonies from rheumatism) back towards his passenger. “Seemed to me,” he said reflectively, as he looked upwards to see if the foretopsail was shivering, “as if he had something in his hand when a' fell.” Christian followed the Captain's gaze. The sails were now filling well, and there was an exhilarating sound of straining cordage in the air while the vessel glided on. The young journalist was not an impressionable man, but he felt all these things. The sense of open freedom, the gentle rise and fall of the vessel, the whirring breeze, and the distant line of high land up the Rance towards Dinant--all these were surely worth hearing, feeling, and seeing; assuredly, they added to the joy of living. “Something in his hand,” he repeated gravely; “what was it?”