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This eBook from the Gutenberg Project consists of approximately 171 pages of information about Uncle Bernac.

‘A guard boat!’ cried one of the seamen.

‘Bill, boy, we’re done!’ said the other, and began to stuff something into his sea boot.

But the boat swerved at the sight of us, like a shying horse, and was off in another direction as fast as eight frantic oars could drive her.  The seamen stared after her and wiped their brows.  ’Her conscience don’t seem much easier than our own,’ said one of them.  ’I made sure it was the preventives.’

’Looks to me as if you weren’t the only queer cargo on the coast to-night, mister,’ remarked his comrade.  ‘What could she be?’

’Cursed if I know what she was.  I rammed a cake of good Trinidad tobacco into my boot when I saw her.  I’ve seen the inside of a French prison before now.  Give way, Bill, and have it over.’

A minute later, with a low grating sound, we ran aground upon a gravelly leach.  My bundle was thrown ashore, I stepped after it, and a seaman pushed the prow off again, springing in as his comrade backed her into deep water.  Already the glow in the west had vanished, the storm-cloud was half up the heavens, and a thick blackness had gathered over the ocean.  As I turned to watch the vanishing boat a keen wet blast flapped in my face, and the air was filled with the high piping of the wind and with the deep thunder of the sea.

And thus it was that, on a wild evening in the early spring of the year 1805, I, Louis de Laval, being in the twenty-first year of my age, returned, after an exile of thirteen years, to the country of which my family had for many centuries been the ornament and support.  She had treated us badly, this country; she had repaid our services by insult, exile, and confiscation.  But all that was forgotten as I, the only de Laval of the new generation, dropped upon my knees upon her sacred soil, and, with the strong smell of the seaweed in my nostrils, pressed my lips upon the wet and pringling gravel.

CHAPTER II

THE SALT-MARSH

When a man has reached his mature age he can rest at that point of vantage, and cast his eyes back at the long road along which he has travelled, lying with its gleams of sunshine and its stretches of shadow in the valley behind him.  He knows then its whence and its whither, and the twists and bends which were so full of promise or of menace as he approached them lie exposed and open to his gaze.  So plain is it all that he can scarce remember how dark it may have seemed to him, or how long he once hesitated at the cross roads.  Thus when he tries to recall each stage of the journey he does so with the knowledge of its end, and can no longer make it clear, even to himself, how it may have seemed to him at the time.  And yet, in spite of the strain of years, and the many passages which have befallen me since, there is no time of my life which comes back so very clearly as that gusty evening, and to this day I cannot feel the briny wholesome whiff of the seaweed without being carried back, with that intimate feeling of reality which only the sense of smell can confer, to the wet shingle of the French beach.

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