Once again, she found herself able to breathe, and looked round wildly for her companions. Once again, a mountain of foam bore down on her and swallowed her. The sea tossed her to and fro like a cockle shell, now bearing her in towards the shore, then carrying her out to sea again only to bring her back once more. It was as though the waves were trying to batter her to pieces, the better to absorb her into their watery depths. Perhaps after all, that was what death was?
Then, suddenly, came searing pain, tearing at Marianne's right thigh. She gave one agonized shriek and then lost consciousness.
When she opened her eyes, it was to find herself in the power of demons. She was being roughly pulled about by two men, one feeling her all over while the other tore off her clothes. She felt the cold sand under her bare back and the burning pain in her side where the gaff must have wounded her in drawing her ashore but scarcely had she opened her eyes than she closed them again in horror at what she had seen. Two men were bending over her. They had long hair and the eyes that glittered in their filthy, hairy faces were the eyes of wild beasts. The one engaged in stripping off her clothes was stark naked, his huge muscular body covered in black matted hair. They were growling like animals, ripping off everything they could find about her and a kind of blind instinct told her that her only chance was to counterfeit death. She was so cold that it was almost true. But the two robbers were not interested in her condition, only in her garments. She heard the gurgle of triumph as they found the canvas pocket where she kept her modest wealth. They began talking together in a rough speech which she did not understand but she guessed that they were arguing over the pearls, the gold and the locket. What these men were taking was all the little she had left in the world and yet Marianne found it did not even make her want to cry. She was too cold and bruised and frightened to be aware of anything but her immediate physical sensations and could only pray with all her might that the men would be satisfied with robbing her and go away and leave her on the beach.
One other thought she clung to, that of her companions in misfortune, Jean and Black Fish. Where could they be? They were seamen, familiar with the worst of storms and must have come to land at the same time as herself or sooner. But she sensed that she was alone. If they still lived, they would not have abandoned her at the mercy of these dreadful men! Jean had promised to look after her. He had kissed her, as though he truly loved her – yes he must be dead. And it seemed to Marianne that she had nothing left in all the world.
Timidly, she half opened her eyes. The two men were standing a few yards away from her, still arguing, but the scene beyond was like something out of a nightmare. The wreckers were busy dragging chests and bales of all descriptions up on to the sand. All about were bodies thrown up by the sea, those of the seamen from the merchant vessel, some already dead, others perhaps still living but only to be finished off without mercy by the wreckers with knives or bludgeons. Further out on the rocks, lay the dying ship, a great hole in her side.
Marianne caught herself thinking idiotically of accounts of shipwrecks she had read in days gone by. They had been nothing like this. She thought of the heroine of Paulet Virginie, preferring death to the idea of taking off her dress. How stupid! Wasn't she herself half naked at the mercy of these men?
As her wits returned, she saw that the sea had thrown her up at one end of the beach. There were rocks close by, rocks among which it might be possible to hide. Absorbed in their booty, the two robbers seemed to have lost interest in her and it was so cold, here in this icy wind.
Very slowly, she began to crawl but however slight the movement, it was noticed. The two men were on her in a second and Marianne found herself pinned helplessly to the ground. With eyes wide with horror, she saw one of the men, the one who still wore some clothing, take from his belt a long cutlass which flickered redly in the glow of a nearby fire. He was already bending down holding the cutlass to her throat when a figure leapt out from among the rocks. Caught off his balance from behind, the man rolled over on the sand. At once, his attacker was upon him and the two men began a savage struggle in which the robber's knife gave him the advantage of Jean Le Dru. The other ruffian was still holding Marianne down so that she could only watch the fight helplessly. But though helpless she was full of hope. If Jean had escaped from the sea and was here on the beach fighting for her, why should not the giant Black Fish also reappear. That would considerably increase their chances.
Jean was bigger than his adversary and must have made up for a good deal in sheer strength but even so, his spell on the hulk Europa and, more recently, his fight for life against the sea, had weakened him to such an extent that it was soon apparent both to the girl and to her guard, who showed his delight by a series of animal grunts, that the robber would soon have the upper hand. And still Black Fish had not appeared. With a rush of pity and terror, Marianne realized that all was lost. The other man was already on top, and kneeling on his chest while Jean tore vainly at the hands around his throat which were slowly choking him. In her terror, Marianne cried out in French.
'For pity's sake! Do not kill him!'
An evil laugh was the only answer but, like an echo of the girl's despairing cry, an icy voice commanded:
'Enough! Let the man go, Vinoc!'
Obedience was instant. Jean Le Dru found himself released while the two robbers retreated, cringing fearfully. The man who had appeared out of the shadows like some ominous night bird was evidently the chief of the wreckers. He was a tall man, dressed in a peasant's sheepskin coat and baggy canvas breeches caught in tightly at the knee, and black felt hat, and his hair hung in short plaits on either side of his face but above these rustic garments, a great black cloak hung from his shoulders, stout leather gauntlets protected his hands and his features were concealed by a black velvet mask. All that could be seen of his face was a strong mouth whose corners drooped in an expression of perpetual disdain and unusually brilliant eyes of some indefinable colour. Seeing those eyes rest thoughtfully upon her, Marianne flushed scarlet with shame and huddled with her arms across her breast in an attempt to hide her almost complete nakedness in the shadow of the rocks. With the frigid smile which never reached his eyes, the unknown shrugged off his black cloak with a quick movement and, tossing it to her, spoke to the two men.
'Take her!' he ordered. Then, pointing to Jean Le Dru who stood before him, still shaking from his fight, he added carelessly: 'Kill him.'
Marianne hastily wrapping herself in the cloak which, she noticed, had about it a smell of verbena totally unexpected in a wrecker, was about to protest but Jean was before her.
'If that is your verdict, why did you stay the fellow's murdering hand a moment ago?' he cried bitterly.
'A reflex. The woman's scream perhaps. And you fought well. I wished to see who you were—'
'Nothing – or no one, as you like! A Frenchman, a Breton like yourself. That is why I do not understand why you would kill me.'
Marianne followed this exchange with amazed disbelief. Beyond a doubt everything that happened to her was fated to have the incoherence of a bad dream. Was it really she, Marianne, sitting here on a rock on a storm ravaged Breton beach, dressed only in a cloak lent by a robber, guarded by wreckers, while a man in a black velvet mask argued about life and death with a prisoner escaped from an English hulk? When she was a little girl, old Jenkins, who loved stories, had told her a host of fabulous tales about the adventures that had befallen poor wretched souls in olden times who were dogged by persistent ill luck. She had heard, too, of the fearful things which had taken place in this land of France ever since the people had run mad and drowned their aristocracy in a bath of blood, and an ambitious Corsican clambered on to the Imperial throne. All this she had been told, and much more she had read but she would never have believed that such things could happen to her. But one cannot be suddenly confronted with life in the raw and remain unchanged. Little by little, Marianne felt her scruples crumbling away, and all her former weakness and false modesty disappearing. Such things seemed stupid and meaningless.