There was, without doubt, something white in the bows of the boat, and
as he stood gazing at it, it took, to his dazed imagination, the strange
form of Nance waving joyful hands to him.
He drew his hands across his eyes. The storm had been sore on them.
The bristling waves of the Race burst in sheets of spray under the
glancing bows, but the white spray and the white figure and the pointed
white sail were all ablaze in the last rays of the sun, and they all
swam before him as if his head was going round.
She came round Quette d'Amont with a fine sweep, like one bound on
business of which she had no reason to be ashamed, and dropped her sail
and lay in the shelter of the rock.
And the white figure in the bows was truly Nance, and she was standing
and waving and calling to him. And the grey-headed man aft was surely
Philip Guille, the Senechal, and the faces of the rest were all
friendly.
He stumbled hastily down to the lower ledges, but the rush and the roar
there drowned their voices.
What were they trying to tell him? What could they want of him?
The Senechal was standing, hands to mouth, waiting his chance.
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