“It is a signal of distress!” cried the woman.  “Oh! the ship, the ship!  The wind is dead upon the shore, and the long reef, out by the Battery Point, has seen many a vessel wrecked between night and morning.”

While she spoke, the signal of distress was seen and heard again.

“I will go down and send people out to see what can be done,” said the stranger, and walked away without waiting for reply.  He turned his steps towards the inn, muttering as he went, “There’s one, at least, on board the ship that won’t be drowned, if there’s truth in an old proverb! so if the vessel be wrecked to-night, I had better order breakfast for my cousin to-morrow morning—­for he is sure to swim ashore.”  It was a night, however, on which no hope of reaching land could cheer the wrecked seamen.  The tide was approaching the full; the wind was blowing a perfect hurricane; the surf upon a high rocky beach, no boat could have lived in for a minute; and the strongest swimmer—­even if it had been within the scope of human power and skill to struggle on for any time with those tremendous waves—­must infallibly have been dashed to pieces on the rocks that lined the shore.  The minute guns were distinctly heard from that town, and several other villages in the neighbourhood.  Many people went to the tops of the cliffs, and some down to the sea-shore, where the waves did not reach the bases of the rocks.  One gentleman, living in the neighbourhood, sent out servants and tenantry with links and torches, but no one ever could clearly distinguish the ship; and could only perceive that she must be in the direction of a dangerous rocky shoal called the Long Reef, at about two miles’ distance from the shore.

The next morning, however, her fate was more clearly ascertained; not that a vestige of her was to be seen out at sea, but the whole shore for two or three miles was covered with pieces of wreck.  The stern-post of a small, French-built vessel, and also a boat considerably damaged in the bow, and turned keel upwards, came on shore as Harry Sherbrooke and his servant were themselves examining the scene.  The boat bore, painted in white letters, “La Coureuse de Dunkerque.”

“That is enough for our purpose, I should suppose,” said the master, pointing to the letters with a cane he had in his hand, and addressing his servant—­“I must be gone, Harrison, but you remain behind, and do as I bade you.”

“Wait a moment, yet, sir,” replied the man:  “you see they are bringing up a body from between those two rocks,—­it seems about his size and make, too;” and approaching the spot to which he pointed, they found some of the country people carrying up the body of a French officer, which afterwards proved to be that of the commander of the brig, which had been seen during the preceding day.  After examining the papers which were taken from the pockets of the dead man, one of which seemed to be a list of all the persons on board his vessel, Sherbrooke turned away, merely saying to his servant, “Take care and secure that paper, and bring it after me to Dublin as fast as possible.”