Scudamore could have endured the loss and the
disillusion of his love--pure and strong as that power had been--but
the ruin of his native land would turn his lively heart into a lump of
stone.
For two or three days he roved about among the people of the
water-side--boatmen, pilots, shipping agents, store-keepers, stevedores,
crimps, or any others likely to know anything to help him. Some of these
could speak a little English, and many had some knowledge of French; but
all shook their heads at his eagerness to get to England. "You may
wait weeks, or you may wait months," said the one who knew most of
the subject; "we are very jealous of the English ships. That country
swallows up the sea so. It has been forbidden to supply the English
ships; but for plenty money it is done sometimes; but the finger must
be placed upon the nose, and upon the two eyes what you call the guinea;
and in six hours where are they? Swallowed up by the mist from the
mountain. No, sir! If you have the great money, it is very difficult.
But if you have not that, it is impossible."
"I have not the great money; and the little money also has escaped from
a quicksand in the bottom of my pocket."
"Then you will never get to England, sir," this gentleman answered,
pleasantly; "and unless I have been told things too severely, the best
man that lives had better not go there, without a rock of gold in his
pocket grand enough to fill a thousand quicksands.
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