"The Last Hope" was scarcely moving, and in the shadowy light looked like a phantom ship sailing out of a dreamy sunset sky.
Suddenly the silence was broken, so unexpectedly, so dramatically, that the old Frenchman, to whose nature such effects would naturally appeal with a lightning speed, rose to his feet and stood looking with startled eyes toward the ship.

A clear strong voice had broken joyously into song, and the words it sang were French: "C'est le Hasard, Qui, tot ou tard, Ici bas nous seconde; Car, D'un bout du monde A l'autre bout, Le Hasard seul fait tout." Not only were the words incongruous with their quaint, sadly gay air of a dead epoch of music and poetry; but the voice was in startling contrast to the tones of a gruff and slow-speaking people.

For it was a clear tenor voice with a ring of emotion in it, half laughter, half tears, such as no Briton could compass himself, or hear in another without a dumb feeling of shame and shyness.
But those who heard it on the shore--and all Farlingford was there by this time--only laughed curtly.

Some of the women exchanged a glance and made imperfectly developed gestures, as of a tolerance understood between mothers for anything that is young and inconsequent.
"We've gotten Loo Barebone back at any rate," said a man, bearing the reputation of a wit.

And after a long pause one or two appreciators answered: "You're right," and laughed good-humouredly.
The Marquis de Gemosac sat down again, with a certain effort at self-control, on the balk of timber which had been used by some generations of tide-watchers.