rope and even in America. And what have they proved? What have
the Bourbons proved in frustrating their frauds? That the son of Louis
XVI. did not die in the Temple. That is all. And Madame herself has
gathered further strength to her conviction that the little King was not
buried in that forgotten corner of the graveyard of Sainte Marguerite.
At the same time, she knows that none of these--neither Naundorff, nor
Havergault, nor Bruneau, nor de Richemont, nor any other pretender--was
her brother. No! The King, either because he did not know he was King,
or because he had had enough of royalty, never came forward and never
betrayed his whereabouts. He was to be sought; he is still to be sought.
And it is now that he is wanted."

"That is why I offer to tell you this story now. That is my reason for
bringing you to Farlingford now," said Colville, quietly. It seemed
that he must have awaited, as the wise do in this world, the propitious
moment, and should it never come they are content to forego their
purpose. He gave a light laugh and stretched out his long legs,
contemplating his strapped trousers and neat boots with the eye of a
connoisseur. "And should I be the humble means of doing a good turn
to France and others, will France--and others--remember it, I wonder.
Perhaps I hold in my hands the Hope of France, Marquis."

He paused, and lapsed for a moment into thought. It was eight o'clock,
and the long northern twilight was fading into darkness now. The bell of
Captain Clubbe's ship rang out the hour--a new sound in the stillness of
this forgotten town.

"The Last Hope," added Dormer Colville, with a queer laugh.

CHAPTER V. ON THE DYKE

Neither had spoken again when their thoughts were turned aside from that
story which Colville, instead of telling, had been called upon to hear.

For the man whose story it presumably was passed across the green ere
the sound of the ship's bell had died away. He had changed his clothes,
or else it would have appeared that he was returning to his ship. He
walked with his head thrown up, with long lithe steps, with a gait and
carriage so unlike the heavy tread of men wearing sea-boots all their
working days, that none would have believed him to be born and bred in
Farlingford. For it is not only in books that history is written, but
in the turn of a head, in the sound of a voice, in the vague and dreamy
thoughts half formulated by the human mind 'twixt sleeping and waking.