"Three hours," said Juve: this was the crossing time between Dover and Ostend.
Heavy cross-seas were running. Those who braved the buffetings and drenchings above deck were now few: it was a villainous crossing!
At the end of an hour and a half the odious waltz of the steamer slowed down. The fog-horn was silent: the Empress moved alongside the jetties of Calais.
The gangways were let down; porters invaded the deck, carrying away luggage to the trains awaiting the travellers in the terminus station.
"Now for it!" thought Juve.
Once on French soil it was all up with the liberty of Corporal Vinson! His arrest would be immediate.
Juve considered the miserable heap collapsed on a side bench: this traitorous rag of humanity had once been an upright man—a true soldier of France! It was terrible! It was piteous!
Juve raised Butler-Vinson. The wretched fellow could hardly stand up. Juve signed to a sailor, who took the corporal's left arm while Juve supported him on the right. Vinson disembarked. He set his feet on the soil—the sacred soil of France!
The crowd was pouring into the great hall, where customs officers were examining the small baggage.
Juve drew Butler-Vinson to the left: the traitor must not catch sight of the French uniforms. An individual seemed to rise out of the ground in front of them: Juve said to him in a low voice: