He was treading slowly down the rough causeway under the walls of the town, when a woman’s shrill voice startled him.  It was not far from sunset, and the sun was sinking round and red behind a bank of fog.  A thin gray mist was creeping up from the sea.  The latest band of stragglers, a cluster of mere children, were running across the sand to the gate.  Michel turned round and saw Nicolas’s wife, a dark, stern-looking woman, beckoning vehemently to these children.  He paused for a moment to look at his little Delphine.  “Not there!” he said to himself, and was passing on, when the shrill voice again caught his attention.

“Where is Phine?” called the mother.

What was it the children said?  What answer had they shouted back?  Michel stood motionless, as if all strength had failed him suddenly.  The children rushed past him in a troop.  He lifted up his eyes, looking fearfully toward the sea hidden behind the deepening fog.  Was it possible that he had heard them say that Delphine was lost?

“Where is Phine?” asked the mother; but though her voice was lower now, Michel heard every syllable loudly.  It seemed as if he could have heard a whisper, though the chattering in the gateway was like the clamour of a fair.  The eldest girl in the little band spoke in a hurried and frightened tone.

“Phine is so naughty, madame,” she said, “we could not keep her near us.  She would go on and on to the sea.  We could not wait for her.  We heard her calling, but it was so far, we dared not go back.  But she cannot be far behind us, for we shouted as we came along.  She will be here soon, madame.”

“Mon Dieu!” cried the mother, sinking down on one of the great stones, either rolled up by the tide, or left by the masons who built the ramparts.  “Call her father to me.”

It was Michel Lorio who found Nicolas, his greatest enemy.  Nicolas had a number of errands to be done in the town, and he was busy impressing them on the memory of his messenger, who, like every one else, could neither read nor write.  When Michel caught his arm in a sharp, fast grip, he turned round with a scowl, and tried, but in vain, to shake off his grasp.

“Come to thy wife,” said Michel, dragging him toward the gate; “Delphine, thy little one, is lost on the sands.”

The whole crowd heard the words, for Michel’s voice was pitched in a high, shrill key, which rang above the clamour and the babel.  There was an instant hush, every one listening to Michel, and every eye fastened upon him.  Nicolas stared blankly at him, as if unable to understand him, yet growing passive under his sense of bewilderment.

“The children who went out with Delphine this morning are come back,” continued Michel, in the same forced tone; “they are come back without her.  She is lost on the sands.  The night is falling, and there is a fog.  I tell you the little one is alone, quite alone, upon the sands; and it will be high water at six o’clock.  Delphine is alone and lost upon the sands!”