Jeanne was sitting in the garden of the Caynsard farm.

The excitement of the last twenty-four hours had left her languid.

For once she lay and watched with idle, almost with indifferent eyes, the great stretch of marshes riven with the incoming sea.

She saw the fishing boats that a few hours ago were dead inert things upon a bed of mud, come gliding up the tortuous water-ways.

On the horizon was the sea bank, with its long line of poles, and the wires connecting the coastguard stations.
They stood like silent sentinels, clean and distinct against the empty background.