JULY 1805


"Succeed, and you command the Irish Expedition," said the squat fellow.

"My Emperor!" replied the tall cavalry-man, saluted, and clanked away
in the gloom.

* * * * *

A sweet evening, very fresh, the tide crashing at the foot of the cliff.

In the twilight, above Boulogne, a man was standing, hands behind him.

The moon lay on the water, making a broad white road that led from
his feet across the flowing darkness West.

The dusk was falling. About him the earth grew dark; above him all
was purity and pale stars.

Only the tumble of the tide, white-lipped on the beach beneath, stirred
the silence; while one little dodging ship, black in the wake of the
moon, told of some dare-devil British sloop, bluffing the batteries
upon the cliff.

The rustle of the water beneath, its crashing rhythm and hiss as of