The wind had dropped now. For these are coasts of quiet nights and
boisterous days. The tide was almost slack. "The Last Hope" was
scarcely moving, and in the shadowy light looked like a phantom ship
sailing out of a dreamy sunset sky.

Suddenly the silence was broken, so unexpectedly, so dramatically,
that the old Frenchman, to whose nature such effects would naturally
appeal with a lightning speed, rose to his feet and stood looking
with startled eyes toward the ship. A clear strong voice had broken
joyously into song, and the words it sang were French:

"C'est le Hasard,
Qui, tot ou tard,
Ici bas nous seconde;
Car,
D'un bout du monde
A l'autre bout,
Le Hasard seul fait tout."

Not only were the words incongruous with their quaint, sadly gay air
of a dead epoch of music and poetry; but the voice was in startling
contrast to the tones of a gruff and slow-speaking people. For it
was a clear tenor voice with a ring of emotion in it, half laughter,
half tears, such as no Briton could compass himself, or hear in
another without a dumb feeling of shame and shyness.

But those who heard it on the shore--and all Farlingford was there
by this time--only laughed curtly. Some of the women exchanged a
glance and made imperfectly developed gestures, as of a tolerance