I could have tossed a letter on her deck.
Suddenly my heart stood still as my gaze lighted on the form of an old man who stood at the stern-rail a little apart from his fellow-passengers.

He stood with his back turned towards me looking up to the lighthouse.

Every line of his form, his attitude, the very locks of thin, white hair were familiar to me.

This was the Vicomte de Clericy, and no other--the man whose funeral I had attended at Senneville six months ago.

I did not cry out, or rub my eyes, or feel unreal, as people do in books.