“Are you with us?” said the tired woman. Gosse had hidden himself successfully then. She had, by the magic of recollection, set the picture of the typhoon between herself and her table companions: the terrible rollers thundering on the white shore, the deafening bellow of the wind, the bending and snapping palms, the thatches of the native huts scattering inland, the blur of sand dust, and those two outcasts defying the elements. But there's a person in the hall—a very odd sort of man—waiting to see him, who won't be sent away. She had not seen Ramage for ten or eleven days, and she was quite ready for a gossip with him. That dress she has on—my mother might have worn it. Meantime, the Stone Hall was crowded by all the inmates of the jail, debtors, felons, turnkeys, and officers who could obtain permission to witness the ceremony of the prisoner's irons being struck off.
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