But surely this was reality! and the year of grace 1792: there were no fairies and hobgoblins about. Chauvelin and his thirty men had all heard with their own ears that accursed voice singing “God save the King,” fully twenty minutes after they had all taken cover around the hut; by that time the four fugitives must have reached the creek, and got into the boat, and the nearest creek was more than a mile from the hut.
Where had that daring singer got to? Unless Satan himself had lent him wings, he could not have covered that mile on a rocky cliff in the space of two minutes; and only two minutes had elapsed between his song and the sound of the boat’s oars away at sea. He must have remained behind, and was even now hiding somewhere about the cliffs; the patrols were still about, he would still be sighted, no doubt. Chauvelin felt hopeful once again.
One or two of the men, who had run after the fugitives, were now slowly working their way up the cliff: one of them reached Chauvelin’s side, at the very moment that this hope arose in the astute diplomatist’s heart.
“We were too late, citoyen,” the soldier said, “we reached the beach just before the moon was hidden by that bank of clouds. The boat had undoubtedly been on the lookout behind that first creek, a mile off, but she had shoved off some time ago, when we got to the beach, and was already some way out to sea. We fired after her, but of course, it was no good. She was making straight and quickly for the schooner. We saw her very clearly in the moonlight.”
“Yes,” said Chauvelin, with eager impatience, “she had shoved off some time ago, you said, and the nearest creek is a mile further on.”
“Yes, citoyen! I ran all the way, straight to the beach, though I guessed the boat would have waited somewhere near the creek, as the tide would reach there earliest. The boat must have shoved off some minutes before the woman began to scream.”
Some minutes before the woman began to scream! Then Chauvelin’s hopes had not deceived him. The Scarlet Pimpernel may have contrived to send the fugitives on ahead by the boat, but he himself had not had time to reach it; he was still on shore, and all the roads were well patrolled. At any rate, all was not yet lost, and would not be, whilst that impudent Britisher was still on French soil.
“Bring the light in here!” he commanded eagerly, as he once more entered the hut.
The sergeant brought his lantern, and together the two men explored the little place: with a rapid glance Chauvelin noted its contents: the cauldron placed close under an aperture in the wall, and containing the last few dying embers of burned charcoal, a couple of stools, overturned as if in the haste of sudden departure, then the fisherman’s tools and his nets lying in one corner, and beside them, something small and white.
“Pick that up,” said Chauvelin to the sergeant, pointing to this white scrap, “and bring it to me.”
It was a crumpled piece of paper, evidently forgotten there by the fugitives, in their hurry to get away. The sergeant, much awed by the citoyen’s obvious rage and impatience, picked the paper up and handed it respectfully to Chauvelin.
“Read it, sergeant,” said the latter curtly.
“It is almost illegible, citoyen … a fearful scrawl …”
“I ordered you to read it,” repeated Chauvelin, viciously.
The sergeant, by the light of his lantern, began deciphering the few hastily scrawled words.
“I cannot quite reach you, without risking your lives and endangering the success of your rescue. When you receive this, wait two minutes, then creep out of the hut one by one, turn to your left sharply, and creep cautiously down the cliff; keep to the left all the time, till you reach the first rock, which you see jutting far out to sea—behind it in the creek the boat is on the lookout for you—give a long, sharp whistle—she will come up—get into her—my men will row you to the schooner, and thence to England and safety—once on board the Daydream send the boat back for me, tell my men that I shall be at the creek, which is in a direct line opposite the Chat Gris near Calais. They know it. I shall be there as soon as possible—they must wait for me at a safe distance out at sea, till they hear the usual signal. Do not delay—and obey these instructions implicitly.”
“Then there is the signature, citoyen,” added the sergeant, as he handed the paper back to Chauvelin.
But the latter had not waited an instant. One phrase of the momentous scrawl had caught his ear. “I shall be at the creek which is in a direct line opposite the Chat Gris near Calais”: that phrase might yet mean victory for him. “Which of you knows this coast well?” he shouted to his men who now one by one all returned from their fruitless run, and were all assembled once more round the hut.
“I do, citoyen,” said one of them, “I was born in Calais, and know every stone of these cliffs.”
“There is a creek in a direct line from the Chat Gris?”
“There is, citoyen. I know it well.”
“The Englishman is hoping to reach that creek. He does not know every stone of these cliffs, he may go there by the longest way round, and in any case he will proceed cautiously for fear of the
