Though a king, he was about to become an
outcast from his realm. Surmising his thoughts, his companions
sought to cheer him. Now the long-desired moment of escape was
at hand, no one thought of repose. The little vessel in which he
intended sailing lay dry upon the shore, the tide being at low
water. The king and his friends, the merchant, the captain, and
the landlord, sat in the well-lighted cosy parlour of the seaport
inn, smoking, playing cards, telling stories and drinking good
ale.
With all such diversions the hours wore heavily away. Their
noisy joviality had an undercurrent of sadness; jokes failed to
amuse; laughter seemed forced; words, mirthful in leaving the
lips, sounded ominous on reaching the ear. At four o'clock the
captain rose to survey his ship, and presently returned saying
the tide had risen. Thereon the king and his friends prepared to
depart. A damp, chilly November fog hung over the sea, hiding
its wide expanse without deadening its monotonous moan. A
procession of black figures leaving the inn sped noiselessly
through darkness. Arriving at the shore, those who were not to
accompany his majesty, knelt and kissed his hand. Then he, with
Lord Wilmot and the captain, climbed on board the vessel and
entered the cabin. The fog had turned to rain. Four hours
later, the tide being favourable, the ship sailed out of port,
and in due time the king was safely landed in France.
CHAPTER III.
Celebration of the Kings return.
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