Half reclining over the rail aft was a young man with folded arms and face intent upon the manoeuvres of his crew. His head was slightly raised, and, as the yacht luffed up gently to the breeze, his profile was turned to the gazers on shore.
It was precisely such a profile as might be one's ideal of a Sir Percivale—half Viking, half saint; not a Greek profile, for it was cut sharply inwards below the brow, the nose springing out with a slightly aquiline curve. The chin was oval, not square, as far as could be seen, but it was partially obscured by a short pointed golden moustache and beard, just inclining to red. The shape of the head, indicated strongly against the light beyond, showed both grace and power. His pose was full of ease and unconsciousness. He seemed hardly aware of the group on the beach, but kept his eyes fixed on his men, giving every now and then an order in German. At last the chain cable rattled out, and the dainty little vessel swung round, head to wind. Her owner roused himself, and stood upright, showing a stature of over six feet.
He wore a white flannel shirt and trousers, a short crimson sash being knotted round his waist. Very leisurely he put on his white peaked cap, then took a dark blue serge yachting coat and slipped his arms into it, moving slowly forward meanwhile to the gangway. A wooden contrivance, forming a kind of bridge, with a handrail, was pushed out by the crew; and one of the longshoremen pressed eagerly forward to make it firm.
Mr. Percivale stepped upon it, and walked, still with that impassive, pre-occupied air, forward towards the waiting crowd.
Now it could be seen that his eyes were bright and vivid, of the very deepest blue—that blue called the violet, which shows darkly from a distance. His hair, with a distinct shade of red in its lustre, was a mass of small soft curls, close to the head. His complexion was fair and clear, just touched with tan, but naturally pale; his features excessively finely cut.
"A man of mark, to know next time you saw," quoted Claud inwardly, as the stranger paused.
The dark blue eyes roved over the crowd but for one swift instant. Then, suddenly, they met the glance of a pair of passionate grey ones—eyes which spoke, which seemed to cry aloud for sympathy—eyes set in such a face as the owner of the Swan had never yet looked on. As the two glances met, they became rivetted, each on the other. There was a pause, which to Elsa seemed to last for hours, but which in reality occupied only a few seconds; then Mr. Fowler went forward and asked,
"You are the owner of the Swan?"
"Yes; and you, if I rightly understood Bergman, are a Justice of the Peace?"
"I am. Fowler is my name."