At intervals from across the moors came the deadened rolling of insurgent drums, and in the sky a ruddy reflection of a fire brightened and waned as the fog thickened or blew inland—an ominous sign of disorder, possibly even a reflection from that unseen war raging somewhere beyond the obscured horizon.
It may have been this indefinable foreboding that drew our little company into a temporary intimacy; it may have been the immense loneliness of the sea, thundering in thickening darkness, that stilled our voices to whispers.
Eyre, ill at ease, walked from window to window, looking at the luminous tints on the ragged edges of the clouds; Sylvia, over her heavy embroidery, lifted her head gravely at moments, to glance after him when he halted listless, preoccupied, staring at Speed and Jacqueline, who were drawing pictures of Arthur and his knights by the lamp-lit table.
I leaned in the embrasure of the southern window, gazing at my lighted lanterns, which dangled from the halyards at Saint-Yssel. The soldier Rolland had so far kept his word—three red lamps glimmered through 354 a driving mist; the white lanterns hung above, faintly shining.
Full in the firelight of the room sat the young Countess, lost in reverie, hands clasping the gilt arms of her chair. At her feet dozed Ange Pitou.
The dignity of a parvenu cat admitted for the first time to unknown luxury is a lesson. I said this to the young Countess, who smiled dreamily, watching the play of color over the drift-wood fire. A ship’s plank was burning there, tufted with golden-green flames. Presently a blaze of purest carmine threw a deeper light into the room.
“I wonder,” she said, “what people sailed in that ship—and when? Did they perish on this coast when their ship perished? A drift-wood fire is beautiful, but a little sad, too.” She looked up pensively over her shoulder. “Will you bring a chair to the fire?” she asked. “We are burning part of a great ship—for our pleasure, monsieur. Tell me what ship it was; tell me a story to amuse me—not a melancholy one, if you please.”
I drew a chair to the blaze; the drift-wood burned gold and violet, with scarcely a whisper of its velvet flames.
“I am afraid my story is not going to be very cheerful,” I said, “and I am also afraid that I must ask you to listen to it.”
She met my eyes with composure, leaned a little toward me, and waited.