station. Before me lay a dim, dark, indistinct scene, with little specks
of light twinkling here and there in the night, but whether on sea or
shore I could not tell. Immediately opposite the train stood the black
hulls and masts and funnels of two steamers, with a glimmer of lanterns
on their decks, and up and down their shrouds. The porter opened the
door for me.

"You've only to go on board, miss," he said, "your luggage will be seen
to all right." And he hurried away to open the doors of the other
carriages.

I stood still, utterly bewildered, for a minute or two, with the wind
tossing my hair about, and the rain beating in sharp, stinging drops
like hailstones upon my face and hands. It must have been close upon
midnight, and there was no light but the dim, glow-worm glimmer of the
lanterns on deck. Every one was hurrying past me. I began almost to
repent of the desperate step I had taken; but I had learned already that
there is no possibility of retracing one's steps. At the gangways of the
two vessels there were men shouting hoarsely. "This way for the Channel
Islands!" "This way for Havre and Paris!" To which boat should I trust
myself and my fate? There was nothing to guide me. Yet once more that
night the moment had come when I was compelled to make a prompt,
decisive, urgent choice. It was almost a question of life and death to
me: a leap in the dark that must be taken. My great terror was lest my
place of refuge should be discovered, and I be forced back again. Where
was I to go? To Paris, or to the Channel Islands?