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was in the grey dawning of the next day, at the hour before the sun rose, that word of M. de Tignonville’s fate came to them in the castle. The fog which had masked the van and coming of night hung thick on its retreating skirts, and only reluctantly and little by little gave up to sight and daylight a certain thing which night had left at the end of the causeway. The first man to see it was Carlat, from the roof of the gateway; and he rubbed eyes weary with watching, and peered anew at it through the mist, fancying himself back in the Place Ste.-Croix at Angers, supposing for a wild moment the journey a dream, and the return a nightmare. But rub as he might, and stare as he might, the ugly outlines of the thing he had seen persisted—nay, grew sharper as the haze began to lift from the grey, slow-heaving floor of sea. He called another man and bade him look.

“What is it?” he said. “D’you see, there? Below the village?”

“’Tis a gibbet,” the man answered, with a foolish laugh; they had watched all night. “God keep us from it.”

“A gibbet?”

“Ay!”

“But what is it for? What is it doing there?”