‘An’ there’s a gallant captain, one Sir Sidney Smith, and he’d a notion o’ goin’ smack into a French port, an’ carryin’ off a vessel from right under their very noses; an’ says he, “Which of yo’ British sailors ’ll go along with me to death or glory?” So Kinraid stands up like a man, an’ “I’ll go with yo’, captain,” he says.  So they, an’ some others as brave, went off, an’ did their work, an’ choose whativer it was, they did it famously; but they got caught by them French, an’ were clapped into prison i’ France for iver so long; but at last one Philip—­Philip somethin’ (he were a Frenchman, I know)—­helped ’em to escape, in a fishin’-boat.  But they were welcomed by th’ whole British squadron as was i’ t’ Channel for t’ piece of daring they’d done i’ cuttin’ out t’ ship from a French port; an’ Captain Sir Sidney Smith was made an admiral, an’ him as we used t’ call Charley Kinraid, the specksioneer, is made a lieutenant, an’ a commissioned officer i’ t’ King’s service; and is come to great glory, and slep in my house this very blessed night as is just past!’

A murmur of applause and interest and rejoicing buzzed all around Philip.  All this was publicly known about Kinraid,—­and how much more?  All Monkshaven might hear tomorrow—­nay, to-day—­of Philip’s treachery to the hero of the hour; how he had concealed his fate, and supplanted him in his love.

Philip shrank from the burst of popular indignation which he knew must follow.  Any wrong done to one who stands on the pinnacle of the people’s favour is resented by each individual as a personal injury; and among a primitive set of country-folk, who recognize the wild passion in love, as it exists untamed by the trammels of reason and self-restraint, any story of baulked affections, or treachery in such matters, spreads like wildfire.

Philip knew this quite well; his doom of disgrace lay plain before him, if only Kinraid spoke the word.  His head was bent down while he thus listened and reflected.  He half resolved on doing something; he lifted up his head, caught the reflection of his face in the little strip of glass on the opposite side, in which the women might look at themselves in their contemplated purchases, and quite resolved.

The sight he saw in the mirror was his own long, sad, pale face, made plainer and grayer by the heavy pressure of the morning’s events.  He saw his stooping figure, his rounded shoulders, with something like a feeling of disgust at his personal appearance as he remembered the square, upright build of Kinraid; his fine uniform, with epaulette and sword-belt; his handsome brown face; his dark eyes, splendid with the fire of passion and indignation; his white teeth, gleaming out with the terrible smile of scorn.

The comparison drove Philip from passive hopelessness to active despair.

He went abruptly from the crowded shop into the empty parlour, and on into the kitchen, where he took up a piece of bread, and heedless of Phoebe’s look and words, began to eat it before he even left the place; for he needed the strength that food would give; he needed it to carry him out of the sight and the knowledge of all who might hear what he had done, and point their fingers at him.