It was equally characteristic of a Farlingford ship that there were no greetings from the deck. Those on shore could clearly perceive the burly form of Captain Clubbe, standing by the weather rigging. Wives could distinguish their husbands, and girls their lovers; but, as these were attending to their business with a taciturn concentration, no hand was raised in salutation.
The wind had dropped now. For these are coasts of quiet nights and boisterous days. The tide was almost slack. “The Last Hope” was scarcely moving, and in the shadowy light looked like a phantom ship sailing out of a dreamy sunset sky.
Suddenly the silence was broken, so unexpectedly, so dramatically, that the old Frenchman, to whose nature such effects would naturally appeal with a lightning speed, rose to his feet and stood looking with startled eyes toward the ship. A clear strong voice had broken joyously into song, and the words it sang were French:
“C’est le Hasard, Qui, tôt ou tard, Ici bas nous seconde; Car, D’un bout du monde A l’autre bout, Le Hasard seul fait tout.”
Not only were the words incongruous with their quaint, sadly gay air of a dead epoch of music and poetry; but the voice was in startling contrast to the tones of a gruff and slow-speaking people. For it was a clear tenor voice with a ring of emotion in it, half laughter, half tears, such as no Briton could compass himself, or hear in another without a dumb feeling of shame and shyness.
But those who heard it on the shore—and all Farlingford was there by this time—only laughed curtly. Some of the women exchanged a glance and made imperfectly developed gestures, as of a tolerance understood between mothers for anything that is young and inconsequent.
“We’ve gotten Loo Barebone back at any rate,” said a man, bearing the reputation of a wit. And after a long pause one or two appreciators answered:
“You’re right,” and laughed good-humouredly.
The Marquis de Gemosac sat down again, with a certain effort at self-control, on the balk of timber which had been used by some generations of tide-watchers. He turned and exchanged a glance with Dormer Colville, who stood at his side leaning on his gold-headed cane. Colville’s expression seemed to say:
“I told you what it would be. But wait: there is more to come.”