followed her. I was in no haste to make my presence known; the farther
she went I made sure of the longer hearing to my suit; and the ground
being all sandy it was easy to follow her unheard. The path rose and
came at last to the head of a knowe. Thence I had a picture for the
first time of what a desolate wilderness that inn stood hidden in; where
was no man to be seen, nor any house of man, except just Bazin's and the
windmill. Only a little farther on, the sea appeared and two or three
ships upon it, pretty as a drawing. One of these was extremely close in
to be so great a vessel; and I was aware of a shock of new suspicion,
when I recognised the trim of the _Seahorse_. What should an English
ship be doing so near in to France? Why was Alan brought into her
neighbourhood, and that in a place so far from any hope of rescue? and
was it by accident, or by design, that the daughter of James More should
walk that day to the seaside?

Presently I came forth behind her in the front of the sandhills and
above the beach. It was here long and solitary; with a man-o'-war's boat
drawn up about the middle of the prospect, and an officer in charge and
pacing the sands like one who waited. I sat immediately down where the
rough grass a good deal covered me, and looked for what should follow.
Catriona went straight to the boat; the officer met her with civilities;
they had ten words together; I saw a letter changing hands; and there
was Catriona returning. At the same time, as if this were all her
business on the Continent, the boat shoved off and was headed for the
_Seahorse_. But I observed the officer to remain behind and disappear
among the bents.

I liked the business little; and, the more I considered of it, liked it
less. Was it Alan the officer was seeking? or Catriona? She drew near
with her head down, looking constantly on the sand, and made so tender a
picture that I could not bear to doubt her innocence. The next, she
raised her face and recognised me; seemed to hesitate, and then came on
again, but more slowly, and I thought with a changed colour. And at that
thought, all else that was upon my bosom--fears, suspicions, the care of
my friend's life--was clean swallowed up; and I rose to my feet and
stood waiting her in a drunkenness of hope.

I gave her "good-morning" as she came up, which she returned with a good
deal of composure.

"Will you forgive my having followed you?" said I.

"I know you are always meanin