'That is the old castle of Boulogne, Miss Cheyne,' said Tom Llanyard, drawing near her, and finding it impossible not to say something; 'and now we can make out the arched gateways in the ramparts.'
'I have been there,' replied Alison, 'and know the place well—the Hôtel de Ville, the Palais de Justice, and all the pretty promenades.'
Indeed, she knew the place rather too well, as her father had been compelled to retire there more than once, from motives of prudence and economy.
'Where are we sailing to?' she asked, after a pause.
'I scarcely know, Miss Cheyne; Lord Cadbury's orders are that we are to hug the coast of France and keep under easy sail. I thought, perhaps, you might know,' he added.
'No, I know nothing,' she answered, wearily.
'Surely it can't be that this mere girl is about to chuck herself away on a brute like Cadbury!' thought Tom, as he looked with sympathy on her blanched face and quivering lip.
'Thank you—you are very kind to me,' said Alison, as he readjusted the rugs and wraps about her.
'Kind to you!' ejaculated Tom—'who on earth or sea either would not be kind to you!'
Alison smiled at his blunt energy, and she rather clung to the society of this good, cheery, honest fellow, and felt, when with or near him, a sense of protection.