ys--here,
beneath that clear sky, within sound of the sea, and with this balmy
autumn breeze whispering to her a last lullaby. All was so solitary,
so silent, like unto dreamland. Even the last faint echo of the distant
cart had long ago died away, afar.

Suddenly . . . a sound . . . the strangest, undoubtedly, that these lonely
cliffs of France had ever heard, broke the silent solemnity of the
shore.

So strange a sound was it that the gentle breeze ceased to murmur,
the tiny pebbles to roll down the steep incline! So strange, that
Marguerite, wearied, overwrought as she was, thought that the beneficial
unconsciousness of the approach of death was playing her half-sleeping
senses a weird and elusive trick.

It was the sound of a good, solid, absolutely British "Damn!"

The sea gulls in their nests awoke and looked round in astonishment; a
distant and solitary owl set up a midnight hoot, the tall cliffs frowned
down majestically at the strange, unheard-of sacrilege.

Marguerite did not trust her ears. Half-raising herself on her hands,
she strained every sense to see or hear, to know the meaning of this
very earthly sound.

All was still again for the space of a few seconds; the same silence
once more fell upon the great and lonely vastness.

Then Marguerite, who had listened as in a trance, who felt she must be
dreaming with that cool, magnetic moonlight overhead, heard again; and
this time her heart stood still, her eyes large and dilated, looked
round her, not daring to trust her other sense.

"Odd's life! but I wish those demmed fellows had not hit quite so hard!"

This time it was quite unmistakable, only one particular pair of
essentially British lips could have uttered those words, in sleepy,
drawly, affected tones.

"Damn!" repeated those same British lips, emphatically. "Zounds! but I'm
as weak as a rat!"

In a moment Marguerite was on her feet.

Was she dreaming? Were those great, stony cliffs the gates of paradise?
Was the fragrant breath of the breeze suddenly caused by the flutter of
angels' wings, bringing tidings of unearthly joys to her, after all her
suffering, or--faint and ill--was she the prey of delirium?

She listened again, and once again she heard the same very earthly
sounds of good, honest British language, not the least akin to
whisperings from paradise or flutter of angels' wings.

She looked round her eagerly at the tall cliffs, the lonely hut, the
great stretch of rocky be