Amid the confusion of departure there were thrown down in disorder, at the foot of the cliff, the goods which the voyagers were to take with them, and which, by means of a plank serving as a bridge across, were being passed rapidly from the shore to the boat.  Bags of biscuit, a cask of stock fish, a case of portable soup, three barrels—­one of fresh water, one of malt, one of tar—­four or five bottles of ale, an old portmanteau buckled up by straps, trunks, boxes, a ball of tow for torches and signals—­such was the lading.  These ragged people had valises, which seemed to indicate a roving life.  Wandering rascals are obliged to own something; at times they would prefer to fly away like birds, but they cannot do so without abandoning the means of earning a livelihood.  They of necessity possess boxes of tools and instruments of labour, whatever their errant trade may be.  Those of whom we speak were dragging their baggage with them, often an encumbrance.

It could not have been easy to bring these movables to the bottom of the cliff.  This, however, revealed the intention of a definite departure.

No time was lost; there was one continued passing to and fro from the shore to the vessel, and from the vessel to the shore; each one took his share of the work—­one carried a bag, another a chest.  Those amidst the promiscuous company who were possibly or probably women worked like the rest.  They overloaded the child.

It was doubtful if the child’s father or mother were in the group; no sign of life was vouchsafed him.  They made him work, nothing more.  He appeared not a child in a family, but a slave in a tribe.  He waited on every one, and no one spoke to him.

However, he made haste, and, like the others of this mysterious troop, he seemed to have but one thought—­to embark as quickly as possible.  Did he know why? probably not:  he hurried mechanically because he saw the others hurry.

The hooker was decked.  The stowing of the lading in the hold was quickly finished, and the moment to put off arrived.  The last case had been carried over the gangway, and nothing was left to embark but the men.  The two objects among the group who seemed women were already on board; six, the child among them, were still on the low platform of the cliff.  A movement of departure was made in the vessel:  the captain seized the helm, a sailor took up an axe to cut the hawser—­to cut is an evidence of haste; when there is time it is unknotted.

“Andamos,” said, in a low voice, he who appeared chief of the six, and who had the spangles on his tatters.  The child rushed towards the plank in order to be the first to pass.  As he placed his foot on it, two of the men hurried by, at the risk of throwing him into the water, got in before him, and passed on; the fourth drove him back with his fist and followed the third; the fifth, who was the chief, bounded into rather than entered the vessel, and, as he jumped in, kicked back the plank, which fell into the sea, a stroke of the hatchet cut the moorings, the helm was put up, the vessel left the shore, and the child remained on land.