Mary's horse started, and she caught up the reins and clutched them to her bosom. "They are—boys?" she asked, in a changed voice.
"Two, Madam. If they had gone I should indeed be desolate—but they are too young, and I am selfish enough to be glad of it."
Mary sat motionless. The whole sky was darkening, and hurrying clouds hastened the twilight. The waves were growing in size and making a longer roar as they curled over on to the land; the great ships of war could be seen tossing as their wind-filled sails drove them forwards, and the little boats were pitched low on their sides.
"It indeed seemeth like a storm," said Mary faintly; her courage, her pride, had utterly gone; the eyes she strained to fix on the blue flag were sad and wild.
"A storm?" echoed Mrs. Marston. "O God, protect us!"
Suddenly a low deep murmur rose from the distant multitude.
"What is that?"
"They have lit the lantern on the Prince his ship," said Mary, very low.
The English exile thrilled to see the great clear light hoisted amid the masts and cordage, sparkling, a beacon through the stormy dusk; her thoughts travelled from her children, whom so lately she had spoken of.
"It is sad," she remarked, "that the Prince hath no heir."