It was his father.
"Safe and sound, my boy?
_Parbleu!_ but it's easy to see you're no accomplished sailor; but that's all the better." Tristram was feeling too faint to contest this, though it appeared to him to be disputable.
"Let us get ahead of this mob," his father went on.

"Come, use your best foot--it's no great distance." He struck off the sodden track and dived into the mist, Tristram following close at his heels.

Their way lay over hillocks and hollows of sand in which they sank ankle-deep at every step.
In two minutes they lost sight of the regiment, and were walking with their faces set, as it seemed, towards a wall of grey atmosphere, impenetrable by the eye.

After five minutes of this Tristram groaned.

He had eaten nothing for twenty-four hours, and his limbs were weak as water.
"Courage, my son! A few paces more." Almost as he spoke a building loomed out of the mist, and they found themselves before a doorway, over which hung the sign of "The Four Seasons." A sentry, who stood beside the entrance, presented arms and let them pass.