What with the wind and the flannel ear-flaps of the sou'wester, it was hard to make one's self heard, and the two faces almost touched—the unbeliever who knew so little, and the priest who knew not only books but men. They made their way to the little quay, or, rather, the few yards of sea-wall that protect the houses at the corner of the street. But here they could not stand, and were forced to retire to the lee side of the Hotel de la Plage, which, as all know, stands at the corner, with two timorous windows turned seaward, and all the rest seeking the comfort of the street.
In a few words Belfort explained where the light had been seen, and where, according to his judgment, the steamer must have taken the rocks.
“If the good God has farther use for any of them, he will throw them on the shore a kilometre to the east of us, where the wire rope descends from the cliff to the shore for the seaweed,” said the priest.
The other nodded.
“What must be done must be done quickly. Let us go,” said the little cure in his rather bustling manner, at which the great, slow-limbed fishermen were wont to laugh.
“Where to?”
“Along the shore.”
“With a rising tide racing in before a north-westerly wind?” said Belfort, grimly, and shook his head.
“Why not? You have your two legs, and there is Some One—up there!”
“I shouldn't have thought it,” answered the man, glancing up at the storm-driven clouds. “However, where a priest can go a one-armed man can surely follow. We need lanterns and a bottle of brandy.”