So the voyage began.
Priests, soldiers, merchants, seamen, peasants and nobles, all stood
silent on the poop-deck, watching the rugged promontory sink, turrets
and towers and roofs merge into one another, black lines melt into
grey; stood watching till the islands became misty in the sunshine and
nothing of France remained but a long, thin, hazy line.
"The last of France, for the present," said the poet.
"And for the present," said the vicomte, "I am glad it is the last of
France. France is not agreeable to my throat."
The Chevalier threw back his shoulders and stood away from the rail.
The Comte d'Herouville, his face purple with rage and chagrin, came up.
He approached Victor.
"Monsieur," he said, "you lied. Madame is not on board." He drew back
his hand to strike the poet in the face, but fingers of iron caught his
wrist and held it in the air.
"The day we land, Monsieur," said the Chevalier, calmly. "Monsieur de
Saumaise is not your equal with the sword."
"And you?" with a sneer.
"Well, I can try."
CHAPTER XII
ACHATES WRITES A BALLADE OF DOUBLE REFRAIN
The golden geese of day had flown back to the Master's treasure house;
and ah! the loneliness of that first night at sea!--the low whistling
song of the icy winds among the shrouds; the cold repellent color tones
which lay thinly across the west, pressing upon the ragged, heaving
horizon; the splendor and intense brilliancy of the million stars; the
vast imposing circle of untamed water, the purple of its flowing
mountains and the velvet blackness of its sweeping valleys; the
monotonous seething round the boring prow and the sad gurgle of the
speeding wake; the weird canvas shadows rearing heavenward; and above
all, that silence which engulfs all human noises simply by its
immensity! More than one stout heart grew doubtful and troubled under
the weight of this mystery.
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