the waves, engulfs it deep, as if
conscious of her guilt. Among her crimes is hypocrisy. She slays and
steals, conceals her booty, puts on an air of unconsciousness, and
smiles.

Here, however, was nothing of the kind. The Douvres, lifting above the
level of the waters the shattered hull of the Durande, had an air of
triumph. The imagination might have pictured them as two monstrous arms,
reaching upwards from the gulf, and exhibiting to the tempest the
lifeless body of the ship. Their aspect was like that of an assassin
boasting of his evil deeds.

The solemnity of the hour contributed something to the impression of the
scene. There is a mysterious grandeur in the dawn, as of the border-land
between the region of consciousness and the world of our dreams. There
is something spectral in that confused transition time. The immense form
of the two Douvres, like a capital letter H, the Durande forming its
cross stroke, appeared against the horizon in all their twilight
majesty.

Gilliatt was attired in his seaman's clothing: a Guernsey shirt, woollen
stockings, thick shoes, a homespun jacket, trousers of thick stuff, with
pockets, and a cap upon his head of red worsted, of a kind then much in
use among sailors, and known in the last century as a _galerienne_.

He recognised the rocks, and steered towards them.

The situation of the Durande was exactly the contrary of that of a
vessel gone to the bottom: it was a vessel suspended in the air.

No problem more strange was ever presented to a salvor.

It was broad daylight when Gilliatt arrived in the waters about the
rock.

As we have said, there was but little sea. The slight agitation of the
water was due almost entirely to its confinement among the rocks. Every
passage, small or large, is subject to this chopping movement. The
inside of a channel is always more or less white with foam. Gilliatt did
not approach the Douvres without caution.

He cast the sounding lead several times.

He had a cargo to disembark.

Accustomed to long absences, he had at home a number of necessaries
always ready. He had brought a sack of biscuit, another of rye-meal, a
basket of salt fish and smoked beef, a large can of fresh water; a
Norwegian chest painted with flowers, containing several coarse woollen
shirts, his tarpaulin and his waterproof overalls, and a sheepskin which
he was accustomed to throw at night over his clothes. On leaving the Bu
de la Rue he had put all these th