Her feet slipped on the grassy bank, for she thought it safest
not to walk near the centre of the road, and she found it difficult to
keep up a sharp pace along the muddy incline. She even thought it
best not to keep too near to the cart; everything was so still, that
the rumble of the wheels could not fail to be a safe guide.
The loneliness was absolute. Already the few dim lights of
Calais lay far behind, and on this road there was not a sign of human
habitation, not even the hut of a fisherman or of a woodcutter
anywhere near; far away on her right was the edge of the cliff, below
it the rough beach, against which the incoming tide was dashing itself
with its constant, distant murmur. And ahead the rumble of the
wheels, bearing an implacable enemy to his triumph.
Marguerite wondered at what particular spot, on this lonely
coast, Percy could be at this moment. Not very far surely, for he had
had less than a quarter of an hour's start of Chauvelin. She wondered
if he knew that in this cool, ocean-scented bit of France, there
lurked many spies, all eager to sight his tall figure, to track him to
where his unsuspecting friends waited for him, and then, to close the
net over him and them.
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