Reaching the summit of the cliff they turned to gaze upon the scene of their shipwreck. Far below them the crowd of wreckers and fishermen seemed like a swarm of ants as they flocked around the stranded hull of the Etoile, now left high and dry, slashing with their axes at the planks and tearing away everything they could lay their hands on.
The sun was low in the western sky ere the wayfarers crossed the Ouse at Seaford and reached the little village of Bishopstone.
"Here is an inn," said Gripwell, pointing to a long straggling building, from the upper storey of which a broom was displayed denoting the fact that wayfarers could find rest and refreshment.
"Welcome to the Buckle Inn, gentles," shouted the host. "What might be your commands?"
"A joint of English roast beef will not be amiss," replied Gripwell. "After that beds with fresh straw, an it please thee."
"The Buckle is ever known for the quality of its beds, fair sirs," replied the host with well-assumed dignity. "I pray ye enter."
The four wayfarers promptly accepted the invitation, and found themselves in a long narrow room, with low, oaken rafters black with smoke. Gathered around a fire blazing on an open hearth were nearly a score of men, clad in white surcoats blazoned with the cross of St. George. Many of them had removed their armour, and were stretching their limbs before the comforting fire.
"Welcome, comrades," shouted a burly giant with a thick crop of reddish hair. "Sit at your ease and drain a tankard with honest archers. Whence come ye?"
"From France," replied Gripwell, overjoyed at the sight of a friendly surcoat.
A roar of laughter greeted his reply.