'Take her!' he ordered. Then, pointing to Jean Le Dru who stood before him, still shaking from his fight, he added carelessly: 'Kill him.'

Marianne hastily wrapping herself in the cloak which, she noticed, had about it a smell of verbena totally unexpected in a wrecker, was about to protest but Jean was before her.

'If that is your verdict, why did you stay the fellow's murdering hand a moment ago?' he cried bitterly.

'A reflex. The woman's scream perhaps. And you fought well. I wished to see who you were—'

'Nothing – or no one, as you like! A Frenchman, a Breton like yourself. That is why I do not understand why you would kill me.'

Marianne followed this exchange with amazed disbelief. Beyond a doubt everything that happened to her was fated to have the incoherence of a bad dream. Was it really she, Marianne, sitting here on a rock on a storm ravaged Breton beach, dressed only in a cloak lent by a robber, guarded by wreckers, while a man in a black velvet mask argued about life and death with a prisoner escaped from an English hulk? When she was a little girl, old Jenkins, who loved stories, had told her a host of fabulous tales about the adventures that had befallen poor wretched souls in olden times who were dogged by persistent ill luck. She had heard, too, of the fearful things which had taken place in this land of France ever since the people had run mad and drowned their aristocracy in a bath of blood, and an ambitious Corsican clambered on to the Imperial throne. All this she had been told, and much more she had read but she would never have believed that such things could happen to her. But one cannot be suddenly confronted with life in the raw and remain unchanged. Little by little, Marianne felt her scruples crumbling away, and all her former weakness and false modesty disappearing. Such things seemed stupid and meaningless.

But Jean and the masked stranger had not finished speaking.

'No witnesses and no survivors, that's the first rule in this business—'

'Some business! Wrecking—'

'Don't dismiss it so lightly. It's a good living and, in these times, that is something to think of. After all, I am offering you a chance. Swear to serve me faithfully as one of us and I will spare your life. Stout hearts are not so easy to come by.'

Jean shrugged with unconcealed contempt.

'Serve you? How? For work of this kind,' he indicated the ravages on the beach, 'all you need is thieves and murderers, not sailors. I am a sailor, one of Surcouf's men!'

Once again Marianne heard the note of pride in his voice and it made her curious. Who, she wondered was this Surcouf for Jean to be so proud of him? However, it seemed the masked man knew who he was well enough. His fists clenched and his voice came thinly through set jaws.

'The Sea Fox, eh? "Baron Surcouf"? Bonaparte's henchman? You have just signed your death warrant, my lad! Besides, I've wasted enough time with you. Do your work, men—'

'No!'

Unable to help herself, Marianne sprang forward impulsively, her aching head held only one idea, to save the life of the man who had fought for her when he might have stayed quietly in his hiding place among the rocks and watched her die, the man who had guarded and protected her in danger and who, when it seemed that death was on them, had kissed her – she clung with both hands to the masked man's arm and thought sprang to her mind that she might as well have clutched an iron bar.

'No, do not kill him! He's lying – he does not know what he is saying. He serves not Surcouf but me! He would not say so for fear of revealing who I am but I cannot see him die because of me.'

'You?' the stranger said with a lift of his eyebrows. 'Who then are you?'

'An aristocrat, like yourself – for you are noble, are you not? Your voice and your speech declare it—'

To save her life she could not have said what made her say it. But whether divinely or diabolically inspired, her words had certainly succeeded in gaining the stranger's attention and something told her she had not been mistaken. A spark of curiosity showed in the man's eyes.

'It may be so. Know, however that men call me simply Morvan. But you have still not told me who you are.'

'My name is Marianne d'Asselnat. My father and mother went to the guillotine for trying to save the queen.' Suddenly she remembered Madame Royal's curious gift and added urgently: 'Tell your men to give you what they took from me. You will find there, as well as a little English money and my mother's pearls, a blue enamel locket containing a lock of white hair. It was given to me by the duchesse d'Angoulême and the hair belong to the martyred queen!'

Marianne was amazed, as she heard herself speaking, that it all came so naturally. She had slipped effortlessly into the voice and accent of a fanatical royalist even though, in the inn at Plymouth, she had turned her back upon the émigrés who, in the person of the duc d'Avaray, had rejected her. But it seemed quite fair to use them in order to save the life of one who served Napoleon – and of course the unknown but undoubtedly celebrated Surcouf!

It seemed that she had almost won her point. Morvan beckoned imperiously to the two men who had been standing a little way off holding Jean and waiting passively for the order to kill him. A few brief words in the strange rough speech which must be the Breton dialect and Vinoc, scowling to himself, handed over to his chief the jewels stolen from Marianne. Morvan took the pearls and put them in his pocket without a word, then he strolled over to one of the fires, holding the locket in his hand. The glow of the flame fell on his grim face with its black mask behind which the eyes burned like hot coals. Marianne threw a quick, anxious glance at Jean. She was afraid he might have heard the rather unorthodox way in which she had defended him. But he had heard nothing. He was leaning back against a rock with his eyes closed in an attitude of utter weariness, still flanked by his guards, simply waiting for his fate to be decided.

Now Morvan was coming back. This time, as he approached Marianne he uncovered and bowed with unexpected grace, his black hat sweeping the sand.

'I crave your forgiveness, Mademoiselle d'Asselnat, for this discourteous welcome. Believe me, I could not know that you were in this wreck. If you will take my arm, I shall be honoured to conduct you to my house where you may rest yourself – and we shall have some speech together.'

Delighted to have won even a moment's respite, Marianne did not stop to ask herself what he meant to talk about.

'And my servant?' she asked, before accepting the proffered arm. 'I hope you mean to pardon him?'

A smile which Marianne judged far from pleasant appeared below the black mask.

'But naturally. He shall follow us but his rash words have made him suspect and he must be watched. Do not take offence at this.'

The two robbers, both of whom were now dressed, brought Jean Le Dru forward, almost dragging him for he was clearly at the end of his strength. Morvan glanced keenly at the young man then gave his orders in a low, distinct voice.

'Take him back to the manor. His life is spared. He is only a lackey, in the service of the young Marquise d'Asselnat, who comes from our exiled princes. But he had lied to me and must be punished. Lock him in the tower.'

Marianne was overcome with fresh terror at these contemptuous words, realizing that Morvan was trying to provoke Jean into a denial. In fact the young man had flushed angrily and was struggling to free himself. He was going to deny it, he was going to repudiate her and then Morvan would have him killed without a moment's hesitation. Marianne ran to him and clasped his hands as hard as she could.

'Be quiet, Jean – it is no use lying. I have told this gentleman what I had to tell him because it would have been stupid to throw away your life for nothing.'

He opened his mouth to cry out but the pressure of the small hands became more insistent and Jean merely shrugged and cursed.

'Very well, mademoiselle. I daresay you are right and I'm only a fool!'

But the look he gave her was not only devoid of any gratitude but so heavy with contempt that Marianne shivered. Now that Morvan had seen fit to proclaim her as an envoy of the exiled princes, she realized that in Jean's eyes she had become an enemy. A royalist spy, and the comradeship born of danger was dead. She was bitterly hurt without quite knowing why but Morvan was watching her and she made herself turn away in order to avoid rousing further suspicions. An aristocrat should not be unduly concerned about a servant. As it was, he remarked when she slipped her hand into the proffered arm: 'You take good care of your servant, my dear. I wonder if I was right to let him live. You set such store by it—'

Realizing that her pleas would not help Jean and that on the contrary, she was bound to play the part she had assumed right to the end, Marianne merely shrugged in her turn and answered:

'Faithful servants are rare, especially for an exile. Now, Monsieur Morvan. I should be glad if you would conduct me to your house. I am tired and perished with cold.'

She said no more and allowed the wrecker to lead her to his unknown dwelling but inwardly she was full of trepidation. She placed little trust in this man who, while admitting his rank, had not unmasked for her, a man who killed in cold blood, a wrecker who could plunder and steal and who had slipped her pearl necklace into his pocket quite unconcernedly. All she hoped to gain was a little time to rest and food for her exhausted body. But she had no illusions about what must follow. As soon as she was better, she would make her escape, taking Jean with her, he no doubt to rejoin his famous Surcouf, she to try and find what little family she had left.