She
heaved a deep sigh, like one who had long been oppressed with the
heavy weight of constant self-control, and she allowed a few tears to
fall unheeded down her cheeks.
Outside the rain had ceased, and through the swiftly passing
clouds, the pale rays of an after-storm sun shone upon the beautiful
white coast of Kent and the quaint, irregular houses that clustered
round the Admiralty Pier. Marguerite Blakeney stepped on to the porch
and looked out to sea. Silhouetted against the ever-changing sky, a
graceful schooner, with white sails set, was gently dancing in the
breeze. The DAY DREAM it was, Sir Percy Blakeney's yacht, which was
ready to take Armand St. Just back to France into the very midst of
that seething, bloody Revolution which was overthrowing a monarchy,
attacking a religion, destroying a society, in order to try and
rebuild upon the ashes of tradition a new Utopia, of which a few men
dreamed, but which none had the power to establish.
In the distance two figures were approaching "The Fisherman's
Rest": one, an oldish man, with a curious fringe of grey hairs round a
rotund and massive chin, and who walked with that peculiar rolling
gait which invariably betrays the seafaring man: the other, a young,
slight figure, neatly and becomingly dressed in a dark, many caped
overcoat; he was clean-shaved, and his dark hair was taken well back
over a clear and noble forehead.
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