Excitement and adventure were as the breath of life to him, and since he
had played his little part at the Jersey battle in a bandbox eleven years
before, he had touched hands with accidents of flood and field in many
countries.

He had been wrecked on the island of Trinidad in a tornado, losing his
captain and his ship; had seen active service in America and in India;
won distinction off the coast of Arabia in an engagement with Spanish
cruisers; and was now waiting for his papers as commander of a ship of
his own, and fretted because the road of fame and promotion was so
toilsome. Rumours of war with France had set his blood dancing a little,
but for him most things were robbed of half their pleasure because they
did not come at once.

This was a moody day with him, for he had looked to spend it differently.
As he walked up the shingle his thoughts were hanging about a cottage in
the Place du Vier Prison. He had hoped to loiter in a doorway there, and
to empty his sailor's heart in well-practised admiration before the altar
of village beauty. The sight of Guida's face the day before had given a
poignant pulse to his emotions, unlike the broken rhythm of past comedies
of sentiment and melodramas of passion. According to all logic of
custom, the acuteness of yesterday's impression should have been followed
up by today's attack; yet here he was, like another Robinson Crusoe,
"kicking up the shingle of a cursed Patmos"--so he grumbled aloud.
Patmos was not so wild a shot after all, for no sooner had he spoken the
word than, looking up, he saw in the doorway of the ruined chapel the
gracious figure of a girl: and a book of revelations was opened and
begun.

At first he did not recognise Guida. There was only a picture before him