ue form of a sepulchre.

Meanwhile there had sprung up a movement in the air. The wind was
rising. The fog, shaken, driven in, and rent asunder, moved towards the
horizon in vast shapeless masses. As quickly as it had disappeared
before, the sea became once more visible.

The cattle, more and more invaded by the waters, continued to bellow in
the hold.

Night was approaching, probably bringing with it a storm.

The Durande, filling slowly with the rising tide, swung from right to
left, then from left to right, and began to turn upon the rock as upon a
pivot.

The moment could be foreseen when a wave must move her from her fixed
position, and probably roll her over on her beam-ends.

It was not even so dark as at the instant of her striking the rocks.
Though the day was more advanced, it was possible to see more clearly.
The fog had carried away with it some part of the darkness. The west was
without a cloud. Twilight brings a pale sky. Its vast reflection
glimmered on the sea.

The Durande's bows were lower than her stern. Her stern was, in fact,
almost out of the water. Clubin mounted on the taffrail, and fixed his
eyes on the horizon.

It is the nature of hypocrisy to be sanguine. The hypocrite is one who
waits his opportunity. Hypocrisy is nothing, in fact, but a horrible
hopefulness; the very foundation of its revolting falsehood is composed
of that virtue transformed into a vice.

Strange contradiction. There is a certain trustfulness in hypocrisy. The
hypocrite confides in some power, unrevealed even to himself, which
permits the course of evil.

Clubin looked far and wide over the ocean.

The position was desperate, but that evil spirit did not yet despair.

He knew that after the fog, vessels that had been lying-to or riding at
anchor would resume their course; and he thought that perhaps one would
pass within the horizon.

And, as he had anticipated, a sail appeared.

She was coming from the east and steering towards the west.

As it approached the cut of the vessel became visible. It had but one
mast, and was schooner-rigged. Her bowsprit was almost horizontal. It
was a cutter.

Before a half-hour she must pass not very far from the Douvres.

Clubin said within himself, "I am saved!"

In a moment like this, a man thinks at first of nothing but his life.

The cutter was probably a strange craft. Might it not be one of the
smuggling vessels on its way to Pleinmont? It might even be Blasqu