e Gironde. Having left
them here, he could reach Blaye before daylight, from whence a passage
up the river to Bordeaux would be easily procurable.

The boatman's cottage stood on the bank of a creek running into the
Gironde. It was a lone building hidden among the low dunes that lie
between the river and the marsh. Any one approaching it by daylight
would be discernible half an hour in advance, and the man's boat, though
old, was seaworthy. None would care to cross the lowlands at night
except under the guidance of one or two, who, like Jean, knew their way
even in the dark.

Colville and Barebone had to help Jean to move the great casks stored
in the crypt of the old chapel by which the entrance to the passage was
masked.

"It is, I recollect having been told, more than a passage--it is a
ramp," explained the Marquis, who stood by. "It was intended for the
passage of horses, so that a man might mount here and ride out into the
mill-stream, actually beneath the mill-wheel which conceals the exit."

Juliette, a cloak thrown over her evening dress, had accompanied them
and stood near, holding a lantern above her head to give them light. It
was an odd scene--a strange occupation for the last of the de Gemosacs.
Through the gaps in the toppling walls they could hear the roar of
voices and the occasional report of a firearm in the streets of the town
below. The door opened easily enough, and Jean, lighting a candle, led
the way. Barebone was the last to follow. Within the doorway he turned
to say good-bye. The light of the lantern flickered uncertainly on
Juliette's fair hair.

"We may be back sooner than you expect, mademoiselle," said Barebone.

"Or you may go--to England," she answered.

CHAPTER XXXIX. "JOHN DARBY"

Although it was snowing hard, it was not a dark night. There was a
half moon hidden behind those thin, fleecy clouds, which carry the snow
across the North Sea and cast it noiselessly upon the low-lying coast,
from Thanet to the Wash, which knows less rain and more snow than any in
England.

A gale of wind was blowing from the north-east; not in itself a wild
gale, but at short intervals a fresh burst of wind brought with it a
thicker fall of snow, and during these squalls the force of the storm
was terrific. A man, who had waited on the far shore of the river for
a quiet interval, had at last made his way to the Farlingford side. He
moored his boat and stumbled heavily up the steps.

Ther