The die was cast now.

Where Dormer Colville's persuasions had failed, where the memory of that journey through Royalist France had yet left him doubting, the incidents of the last few days had clinched the matter once for all.

Barebone was going back to France.
He moved as if to stretch his limbs and lay down once more, with his shoulders against the rail and his elbow covering the stanchion round which the dinghy's painter was made fast.
The proper place for the dinghy was on deck should the breeze freshen.
Barebone knew that as well as the French Captain of the "Petite Jeanne." For seamanship is like music--it is independent of language or race.
There is only one right way and one wrong way at sea, all the world over.

The dinghy was only towing behind while the fog continued to be impenetrable.

At any moment the Captain might give the order to bring it inboard.
At any moment Barebone might have to make a dash for the boat.
He watched the Captain, who continued to steer in silence.