Austin Ambrose tore them from the man's hand.
"Are you sure?" he gasped.
"Yes," came a grave chorus. "We've see'd her wear 'em, time and again. They're hers, and she's lost, poor soul!"
Austin Ambrose walked away with the hat and cape in his hands.
At the back of the beach, on the quay, was a small inn, through whose red curtains the light shone cheerily. He pushed open the door and entered with unsteady gait. The little place was full of sailors and fishermen, all talking about the sad event, and recalling the similar fatality of two years ago. As he entered they became suddenly silent.
"Give me some brandy!" he said, hoarsely.
The landlady mixed him a glass of hot brandy-and-water, and he took it in both hands and drank it; then he sank on to a seat, and with tightly compressed lips stared at the door.
For the time he was unconscious of the presence of the others, deaf to their voices, which arose again in a hushed tone.
"It's the awfulest night," said one, "the awfulest! The poor gentleman's out in it, too! Farmer James have gone down the road to look for him. He's afeard the colt will be skeared by the lightning."
"Ah," said another; "not come back yet, poor gentleman? What a terrible story it will be to tell him. They beant long been mated, have they?"