The vessels, stealing down the river with their sailless masts against the evening sky, looked like phantom ships conveying cargoes of unrestful, tortured spirits into darkness. The sight so fascinated Edmé that she stood watching them until they drifted out of sight and the cries of those on board grew fainter and fainter in the distance. So absorbed had she been as not to hear the lock click in the door and a man enter the room. She only became aware of his presence on hearing a heavy sigh just behind her, and turning her head she saw Lebœuf's heavy face at her shoulder. She gave a startled cry and stepped nearer the window.
"It is a sad sight, is it not," he remarked, with a look of sympathy ill-suited to the leer in his eyes, "and one that might easily frighten the strongest of us."
"It is your sudden appearance, when I thought I was entirely alone, that startled me," replied Edmé, regaining her composure with an effort. "I was so intent upon looking at those boats that I did not hear you come in."
"I see you didn't. I may be bulky, but I'm active and can move quietly," and he gave a chuckle.
Edmé thought him even more repulsive than at the time of his visit to the prison. His face seemed coarser and more inflamed, and his eyes, so dull and heavy before, shone as if animated by drink.
"Where are they taking those poor people?" she asked; "for I presume those are prison boats."
"They are," was the reply in a thick utterance. "Just like this. Are you sure that you want to know where they are being taken?"
"Would I have asked you otherwise?"
"Are you sure you won't faint?"
Edmé gave a shrug of contempt. She saw that he was trying to work upon her fears, and felt her spirit rise in antagonism.