It was the Marquis de Gemosac, and no one was taking any notice of him. Dormer Colville, stumbling over the shingle beside him, recognised Miriam in the firelight and turned again to look at her companion as if scarcely believing the evidence of his own eyes.
“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.