south-east under full sail. Her main and mizzen masts were not visible,
and her colours could not be seen, but Jean's quick eye had lighted on
something which made him cast apprehensive glances at his wife and Guida.
There was a gun in the stern port-hole of the vanishing brig; and he also
noted that it was run out for action.

His swift glance at his wife and Guida assured him that they had not
noticed the gun.

Jean's brain began working with unusual celerity. He was certain that
the brig was a French sloop or a privateer. In other circumstances, that
in itself might not have given him much trouble of mind, for more than
once French frigates had sailed round the Channel Isles in insulting
strength and mockery; but at this moment every man knew that France and
England were only waiting to see who should throw the ball first and set
the red game going. Twenty French frigates could do little harm to the
island of Sark; a hundred men could keep off an army and navy there; but
Jean knew that the Admiralty yacht Dorset was sailing at this moment
within half a league of the Eperquerie. He would stake his life that the
brig was French and hostile and knew it also. At all costs he must
follow and learn the fate of the yacht.

If he landed at Havre Gosselin and crossed the island on foot, whatever
was to happen would be over and done, and that did not suit the book of
Jean Touzel. More than once he had seen a little fighting, and more than
once shared in it. If there was to be a fight--he looked affectionately
at his carronades--then he wanted to be within seeing or striking
distance.

Instead of running into Havre Gosselin, he set for the Bec du Nez, the