legend of moulin huet by lizzie a. freeth author of _the adventures of carl skinflint among the fairies_ guernsey: le lievre, printer, star-office, 10, bordage street. 1872 dedicated to "the conway boys." dedication. though the story contained in the following pages has no connection with them, yet it is my wish to dedicate this little work to "the conway boys," and all those connected with that most invaluable institution, "h.m.s. conway," lying at rockferry, birkenhead. i have particular reason to speak well of the "conway," as any "boy" may know who may have been on board for the last five or six years, from the fact that two of my brothers, after passing a successful career under the careful teaching of the rev. henry o'brien; l.l.d., cork, continued to build on the good foundation laid, and left the "conway" with credit both to their teachers and themselves. i shall always have pleasure in meeting with any "conway boy," and hearing of the good old ship to which i wish a long continuance of her success in preparing boys creditably for one of the great sources of our national strength and wealth--"our merchant navy." i must just add a word of thanks to my friends in guernsey and elsewhere, who so kindly encouraged and supported me when publishing on a former occasion, and whom i see, by reference to the subscription list, coming forward again--among some new friends--with a repetition of their kindness. montpelier, guernsey, 1872. chapter i. in the year 165-, when cromwell had gained ascendancy in england and over the greater portion of the channel islands, there lived in guernsey, at the bay of moulin huêt, a miller of the name of pierre moullin. unlike his class generally, he was a very morose man, hard in his dealings with the poor around him, and exceedingly unsympathizing in all his domestic relations, as will appear as our story unwinds itself. before speaking of the family surroundings of pierre moullin we will glance at the circumstance which forms the basis of the present tale. visitors to the bay of moulin huêt, as well as to other parts of this and the surrounding islands, may have observed a crimson appearance on the rocks, suggesting very sanguinary ideas, but for which, geologists doubtless, would be able to account in a very satisfactory manner. looking at a portion of the original gully through which the water runs after passing through the mill wheel, we find that this crimson appearance is very visible, and as our purpose is not to raise scientific enquiries, we will take one of the fanciful reasons (of which there are two or three in existence), for this coloring on by the hand of nature, which has so abundantly bedecked guernsey in general, and moulin huêt in particular. dipping into the fairy lore of that part of the island, we find that many believe that some mischievous fairies who annoyed the miller much with their nightly pranks were ground to pieces by the mill wheel becoming unfastened, and that their blood remains there to this day, as a warning to all others among the "good people" who might wish to vent their superfluous mischief in a like manner. so much for the fairy lore in the moulin huêt chronicles; but we must turn our attention elsewhere to find out whose blood it was that thus dyed the watercourse of the moulin huêt mill. at the time of which we are speaking, (the opening of the year 165-) pierre moullin and his two children, a son and a daughter, lived in a house adjoining the mill, in fact, the same roof covered both mill and house, which were built facing the sea. the stream of water which turned the wheel was far more powerful than the present, as the old marks (still partially visible) denote. pierre moullin, like many of his fellow-islanders, was a strong adherent of cromwell; his son hirzel was also,--though perhaps he did not go quite as far as his father in his hatred of the royalist party. he had nevertheless acquaintances among the royalist soldiers who were quartered in the strong fortress at jerbourg. one in particular he had made a great friend of--charlie heyward. old pierre often used to say he knew harm would come of this friendship, and felt his words were being proved true when he discovered that an attachment was springing up between his daughter marguerite and the young soldier. on becoming aware of this his rage was unbounded, and he repeatedly said he would be the death of charlie if he could manage it. he tried in every way to bring his son to his way of thinking, but though hirzel did not much like the idea of his sister marrying a royalist soldier, and besides which another friend and fellow-countryman of his jacques gaultier, was also much attached to the fair marguerite, and had long persecuted her with his unwelcome attentions, still hirzel would have done anything rather than have injured his friend charlie, whom he liked well, though he did not like his principles. in jacques gaultier the old miller saw a ready tool towards gaining his wicked end of destroying charlie. the latter did not think pierre's hatred reached the extent it did, at the same time he was still aware there was no chance of his ever gaining the old man's consent to his marrying marguerite. one night pierre sent his son to bring jacques gaultier saying, he wished to speak to him about taking some flour into the town next day. jacques was only too delighted to get any excuse for going to the mill, and immediately said he would accompany hirzel if he "would wait until he got something which he had been making for marguerite." "all right, jacques, my boy, but look sharp, as the old man seems impatient to-night." "thy tone and way of speaking savour far more of the style of that base soldiery which our island is burdened with, than the tone of thy father's son should be," replied jacques. "very well," said hirzel, "i will promise to mend my ways, but do be quick, as i promised to walk with my sister at seven, and now it is nigh on half-past; and she says she needs my counsel much on a matter." "ah! thou art an impatient lad, but it would be worse with me were i in thy case; long till she'd ask me to walk with her, not i warrant were i dying for a look at her sweet face." "don't be down-hearted, jacques, how know'st thou but that my sister may change her mind and look kindly on thee yet; wait till the redcoats have gone down to the castle, and then perhaps thy fishers' garb may find favour in her sight, but what hast thou got there? some woman's trifles, which thou seem'st to understand better than i have yet learned." "i made these sore against my will, for i would rather see thy sister reading some edifying book than passing her time on such vanities as these are used for, they are bobbins, lad." "ha, ha," laughed hirzel, "were i to go into the market to-morrow and say that stern jacques gaultier spent his hours carving out lace bobbins, who would believe me?" "don't laugh at me, hirzel, perhaps one of these fine days thou wilt do something more foolish: when thy nineteen summers shall have ripened like mine to thirty thou wilt have different thoughts." "time enough to speak when it comes. now i love my boat better than anything else! but how we are wasting this fine evening. my father will think we are lost or gone to be soldiers, eh jacques? come along, and we will see what marguerite thinks of those little sticks of thine." chapter ii. on the same evening of which we have been speaking marguerite was sitting just outside the door, employed as she generally was in her leisure time at lace work, of the style which had been so fashionable during the reign of the late murdered king. how marguerite had first learnt this "unedifying work," we know not but as she used to work for the family of one of the king's officers, and had seen the ladies do it, she soon with very little instruction learnt to do it well. very pretty marguerite looked bending over her "lace pillow," weaving sweet thoughts into her work, if we may judge from the expression of her face which was one of those that "made one feel good to look at," as charlie often said, and indeed it was a good thing for him to take the remembrance of such a face through his barrack life, which at least was a rough one. marguerite had not long been enjoying the quiet of her own society when she heard her father call her. she immediately obeyed his summons with that strange feeling at her heart--that strange foreshadowing of evil--to which we have all been subject at some time in our lives. "again at that silly work, girl; better for thee to get something to do about the house than waste thy time over that useless finery; i'll warrant me when thou art jacques gaultier's wife he will find thee other work--mending his nets, mayhap!" "my dear father, i will never be jacques gaultier'a wife. i have told him so oft: i doubt if he will ever speak to me on the subject again; he will not risk hearing rude words from me, i fancy." "i tell thee thou _shalt_ be jacques gaultier's wife, and that before long; he is coming here to-night, and i will tell him he can have thee with my full consent. spite of thy love for red coats, thou wilt settle down here as a fisher's wife." "father, i have promised to marry charlie and no other, and i will do so; you used to like him ere 'my lord protector cromwell' turned the heads, if not gained the hearts, of nearly all but the loyal soldiery! and now i will never marry any one but charlie. you have made me speak thus to you father; i don't think you ought to try to make me marry one whom in my heart i despise; and who you know well is not a good man." "ah! that is thy spirit, is it? well, we'll see; i doubt if thou wilt find that fine soldier of thine alive much longer; it would be a good and commendable deed to sweep all such from the face of the earth." "yes, surely, commendable, but only in the eyes of those who murdered our poor king, father; but we will speak no more of these things. you are tired with your day's work, and are not like yourself to-night. i hear hirzel's voice, so i will go and meet him; we are to have a walk this evening, and you can talk quietly with jacques, but not a word about me; you know what my thoughts are now, father." having thus spoken, marguerite left the house, and after going through the garden gate, she entered a pretty lane which was abundantly blessed by nature with a quantity of ferns and wild flowers. it was just beginning to grow dusk, and she saw not far off jacques gaultier and her brother. the latter was singing in his native _patois_ a gay song, much to the horror of jacques, who thought it was dreadful to do such a thing. dropping his usual air of hypocritical stiffness (adopted by so many to fall in with the custom of the times), he hastened forward to meet marguerite, and with a show of politeness, wonderful for the rough jacques, raised his hat and said, "good evening, marguerite; it is my fault that thy brother is late; i kept him while i was getting ready some bobbins which i have made in the hope that thou wilt take them from me." "i thank thee, jacques gaultier, but i do not want thy bobbins; keep them for some other girl: i am teaching many this same work, and no doubt you will find some one glad to get them. i am going to-night where i shall get a set made by some one whom i like better than jacques gaultier. my father is waiting, so go to him; come hirzel, don't delay me longer." jacques moved off muttering to himself, and with a most murderous look on his dark face. poor charlie would have fared badly had he been in this man's power just now! chapter iii. we will follow gaultier into the mill, leaving marguerite and her brother to pursue their intention of having a walk, and hear what old pierre has to say. on jacques entering the room he found the old man in a state of great disquietude--in fact, in a very great rage. he had by no means recovered his daughter's assertion that she would never marry anyone but charles heyward. "good evening, jacques, i sent for thee on a matter of great importance to thyself. i know thou did'st love my girl marguerite, and that thou had'st a desire to marry her. art thou still of that mind?" jacques was somewhat surprised both at the old man's manner and at this opening address, but replied, "truly i am, but i fear she will never consent to take me for her husband; she hates me, and loves that soldier with red cheeks and bold forward air. i wish he were far from here; but perhaps she would still think of him and never look on me. even to-night she had not a civil word for me, though i stayed at home to make these things for her and lost my place at market." "and serve thee right. what business hast thou to encourage the girl in her vanities? but thou said'st just now thou would'st like to have that fellow out of this. so would i, and the whole lot of those lawless soldiers. can'st thou not think of some means to catch him"? "well, father pierre, i wouldn't like--"wouldn't like _what_!" shouted the old man, "perhaps thou art afraid of the popinjay in his red coat--eh, thou chicken-hearted fellow? thou art not the man i took thee for. i wonder not at marguerite speaking as she does." "those are hard words and i like them not," replied jacques sulkily. he felt the hit contained in pierre's words all the more as he was not quite innocent of fear of the red coat. "i was going to say," he continued, "i wouldn't like marguerite to know i was watching for her soldier, as she might warn him and put him on his guard. ah! the hateful fellow, i wish i had my hands at his throat now." "gently, gently, my good jacques," replied the elder hypocrite, "such language becomes not a follower of our lord protector cromwell. but let us understand one another. charlie heyward--(the name hath but an ill savour to me)--must be put out of the way, and marguerite, like her sex, will doubtless forget that he ever existed, and marry thee. i wonder where they meet? it must be somewhere near here, but i cannot find out. now that he knows he is unwelcome to me, he comes not in here." "i will try and find out, father pierre, and then we must devise means for putting him out of the way, as thou seem'st to desire it, and, mind, my reward is marguerite, whether she be willing or not." "yea, my son, and here is my hand on it." after shaking hands over this black bargain, jacques arose and said he must go, and wishing old pierre "good night," he left the mill. turning round when he had gone a few steps from the door, he clenched his hand and said, "thou tempt'st me to commit murder, but i'll take care that thou doest the deed thyself; bad as i am i could not take marguerite's hand in mine after such a foul deed." it was now getting rather late, but as jacques had no business of his own on hand, but rather wished, like so many others to be about business that was _not_ his, instead of going home he thought he would go up the cliffs by a path which swept round the side of the hill till it came to fields that led to the jerbourg fortress. on coming to a corner where the path turned up the hill, he paused to look at the scene before him, which was a lovely one: the moon was very brilliant, and the light of it made a broad pathway across the bay--such a pathway as always makes one wish to walk along in the calm to find a place of rest. perhaps the dark rocks which rose with a sort of sullen majesty straight up from the water side, were more to jacques' fancy than the moon path on the water, for he was gazing intently across the hay at them, while apparently the rest of the beautiful scene was lost on him. so intent was his gaze at the rocks--on the summit of which was the jerbourg fortress--that he did not observe the presence of two persons who were coming slowly towards him. evidently they had not remarked him either, which was not so much to be wondered at as they were no other than marguerite and charlie! suddenly jacques' attention was drawn to them by a merry laugh from marguerite. on looking round and seeing who were there he ground his teeth in jealous rage and muttered to himself. "ha! now i may discover something," and going a few steps round the corner, he turned himself into some bushes that overhung the path and bent down his head, prepared to listen to the conversation of the pair coming along. ah! marguerite; ah, charlie! how careful you would be did you know of the presence of that dark-faced jacques with his evil designs. unconsciously jacques had placed himself in an excellent position to hear and see all that was going on, as immediately beneath the bushes in which he had hidden himself there was a large block of granite on which the lovers sat down to await hirzel, who was coming up from the bay. little they knew what power they were putting in the hands of one who would not scruple to use it to the utmost. "so your father is still against me, marguerite?" "yes, charlie; and that dreadful jacques is persecuting me as much as ever with his impertinent attentions. only this evening he brought me some bobbins which i told him he might take elsewhere." "that reminds me i have brought with me those i have been making; perhaps, though, you prefer those made by our dark friend, eh! marguerite?" "don't jest about him, charlie; it frightens me even to think of him. i am sure he would work you a mischief if he could." "ah! marguerite, don't alarm yourself. the worst mischief he can work is to bring a shade on your sweet face. all this evening i have noticed a troubled look in those grey eyes of yours, which must be banished ere i see you again. you surely do not think i am frightened at what such a fellow as that can do! but what have i done with the bobbins? i hope i have not dropped them. ah! well! i suppose i did not bring them with me after all, but i promise you shall have them two nights hence." "no, charlie, you must not come near here again for some time, as i am certain there is danger, and i would far rather wait to see you until you can come with safety. i feel there is something wrong going on between my father and jacques." "nonsense, marguerite; you really must not have these idle fancies. i shall come over in the evening after dark. you come up this path, and show the light of a lantern three times if all is well. then i will start from our barracks, and come as quickly round the cliffs as i can. you return to the mill, and go to the granary; i will climb up the mill wheel. if i remember rightly, the granary window is just over the wheel. then i shall be able to speak to you for a few minutes, and bring the precious little bobbins." "halloo! charlie, where are you, and what have you done with my sister?" "oh! there is hirzel. how he frightened me," exclaimed marguerite, who evidently feared everything to-night. "she is all right, old fellow. come along, you are just in time to take her home; i must be off, or black hole for me." hirzel now appeared from the midst of the ferns and gorse, and came up on the path and joined his sister and charlie. "the fish won't bite to-night, somehow; _they_ are not so easily caught by a dazzling bait as some other things i could mention. ha! marguerite, you seem to take it to yourself. well, perhaps i mean you, and perhaps i don't; but come along, father will think you are lost." hirzel said "good night" to charlie, and moved off discreetly, leaving his sister to follow. "don't forget wednesday night, marguerite; i shall look for your signal about eight, and if all's well, i'll be round by nine. i will get leave to stay out later than usual that night." "well, charlie, i won't prevent your coming this once, but my heart sadly misgives me. i hope nothing will happen to you." "don't be foolish, marguerite, but run away after your brother; he is looking impatient, and you know this is nicer for me than for him! he is a brave good lad, worthy of having such a sister as he has. good bye till wednesday. mind, don't forget the signal. good night, hirzel." "well! time you said it old fellow," shouted hirzel, "i have knocked about all the stones in the neighbourhood with my stick, so was beginning to be at a loss for employment. come quickly. marguerite." on the way home marguerite told her brother how charlie was to come and see her on wednesday, and they arranged that hirzel should stop about the house so fearful of some violence occurring was marguerite. chapter iv. when hirzel and his sister were out of sight, jacques got down from his hiding place and walked after them with the intention of telling old pierre what he had heard, and also to reveal to him a plan which had suggested itself to his evil mind for destroying the young soldier when he came to visit marguerite on the following wednesday evening. jacques changed his mind about going in when he came near the mill. he saw through the open door pierre talking with his children; he thought he should not be able to see the old man alone that night, and besides, he had a feeling which kept him back from entering marguerite's presence when he was plotting against her happiness in such a deadly manner. so gaultier turned his steps homeward, revolving in his mind the plan he had laid out which was briefly this. the mill wheel was secured by a rope which passed round the corner of the house and into a room behind the granary, where it was fastened to a rafter. now gaultier thought that when charlie was standing on the wheel, if he could get old pierre to unfasten the rope, the sudden starting round of the wheel would precipiate charlie into the stream below, where he must inevitably be dashed to pieces. well thought of, jacques gaultier; but it is a pity thy ingenuity had not been turned to better account! jacques spent a most restless night, for the awfulness of the crime which he was meditating presented itself unceasingly to his mind; but, on the other hand, he pictured to himself marguerite charlie's wife, therefore lost to him. not only did he hate charlie on this score, but political feeling, as well as the frank pleasant manner of the young soldier, assisted in making jacques look hardly on him. he could'nt but remark the different manner in which he was treated. people rather avoided than courted the society of "dark jacques gaultier," as he was called by the boys round his neighbourhood, with the disagreeable honesty of "small boy" youth. jacques was one of those unhappy beings who live with their blinds down and windows shut, morally speaking; and yet who wonder that they don't get the bright light and pure air into their minds, which cause some of their brethren to be such refreshing bits in the way through life. one of these was charlie: he went happily through life, carrying sunshine with him wherever he went: he felt sorry for jacques, and would willingly have been friends with him, but in their relative positions this was impossible. all his overtures were received with decided rudeness on the part of jacques, when they received any notice at all, so charlie gave up, and took the situation as inevitable. when morning came jacques rose very early and went down to the mill. he judged the early morning to be the best time to see the old man by himself. in this he was correct, for when he got there he found pierre was the only one down. he was standing in the little garden in the front of the house. after they had exchanged the customary greetings of the place, the old miller asked jacques "what had brought him out so early." the latter told him all he had overheard the preceding evening, and then he unfolded his plan, for charlie's destruction, but tried to impress on the old man that he had better loosen the rope himself. this pierre would not listen to; said his courage might fail him; then pleaded his age, failing strength, and many other things; finally, he said, he would not do it, adding, "one would think i wanted the girl for my wife; no, do thy own business unless thou art very anxious to give marguerite to this fine soldier. i warrant me that will be the end of it." "father pierre, thou well know'st i would sooner die a thousand times than _he_ should have her, so i will do the thing myself; but how shall i give reason for my presence here? marguerite, for days, even weeks past, has been looking at me with suspicion in her eyes, as though she divined my thoughts towards that lover of hers?" "leave all to me. can i not have whom i like in my own house? i see that though thou may'st not dread other things, thou art well frightened at a woman's looks. well, well, there's something in that, too." "yes, father pierre, there is; much sometimes." "but leave looks to mind themselves now, and i will show you what to do, and where to go. you can well be in the room behind the granary, as one or two of the rafters need mending. let marguerite see you leave your work and start for home; then when she goes to show her light say 'all is well,' thou can'st come back and be ready for the bird with his bright plumage. ha! he would go elsewhere and pipe his song, did he know the manner in which we are preparing his perch!" "that is all well; the popinjay can't escape us now." "come in, jacques, and have some breakfast with us; i think i hear marguerite busy at it now." "marguerite will not have a welcome for me, i know; but as she is to be my wife, she may as well get used to my presence now." when they entered marguerite turned round wondering who could be with her father at such an early hour. on seeing who it was, her face clouded, and she immediately experienced that same feeling of fear come over her as she always had of late when she saw her father and jacques gaultier together. she said "good morning" to them, and then resumed the preparation for the morning meal. jacques' dark eyes followed her all about the room; doubtless he was thinking of the time when she would be performing the same duties under his roof, while she--well, we will not penetrate into her thoughts; no doubt she would prefer keeping them to herself, so we will let her, in the certainty that the train of thought was very different to that of jacques gaultier. hirzel now appeared, announcing that he was ready to eat up all, his sister included. breakfast being ready, they all drew their chairs near the table, marguerite begging hirzel to come and sit near her, as she wanted to speak to him. the boy saw that she wished to keep gaultier off, and with his usual teasing way, he made signs behind that worthy's back to the effect that his sister ought to ask him to sit by her. however, when hirzel saw that his sister looked really troubled, he came immediately like a good brother and did what his sister wished. all this was not lost on that wretched jacques, who between present circumstances, and his own thoughts of what must come before he gained marguerite, had by no means an enviable position. during the repast pierre informed hirzel that on the afternoon of the following day he had a particular message to send him on, as it was one some way off, he might take the cart or ride if he preferred it. "very well, father, i'll go for you; riding is best if i have nothing to carry." "and thou, jacques," said old pierre, "will come after thy fishing is past and mend the rafters i told thee of in the room behind the granary." "but father," said hirzel, "why not let me do that work for you? i would like to, and ride for this message the day after." hirzel said this, because he remembered his sister's arrangement with charlie, and he knew that she particularly wished him to be at home, especially now that there was some chance of jacques being about. "thou would'st like to work indoors? why what has come to thee hirzel?" "you had better do what father wishes hirzel," said marguerite. she saw her brother was troubled as to what was best to be done; also, she was very much afraid lest he should say something to betray matters. so she thought she would settle it quietly, especially when she remembered that charlie would not come until she had shown the light, which she firmly resolved should not be shown until jacques was well out of the place. breakfast being over, jacques took his leave, and the others dispersed to their various occupations--each of the four with very different thoughts and hopes as to what the morrow might bring forth, but at present, like all the rest of mankind, their first business was to get through "to-day" as well as they could. chapter v. the morning following the events recorded in the last chapter was ushered in with bright sunshine, and everything pleasant, so far as outward appearances went, in and out of the mill, though some hearts were restless or uneasy as to how it would be when the sun rose to run his accustomed course the next morning. charlie was perhaps the happiest of all those whose fortunes we are now following. he had but slight clouds to dim his horizon; at least his horizon as seen by his own eyes. he went cheerfully and gladly through his duties that morning, and never did he more fully merit the name of "happy charlie" bestowed on him by his comrades in the gallant 22nd than he did on the morning in question. the truth was he was beginning to tire of old pierre moullin's determined refusal to have anything to say to him in the character of son-in-law. he had made up his mind (and being of a hopeful nature, considered more than half the battle was fought in consequence), that come what might, he would prevail on marguerite to marry him at once, and trust to gain her father's forgiveness when the deed was done beyond recall. and so our friend charlie whistled and sang through this day, building all sorts of pleasant castles about his future life, little thinking what a train was being laid, to which, if the match were applied, he and his castles would be blown up in a more sanguinary, if not more decisive manner, than these airy fabrications generally have to yield to! hirzel had been detained on various pretexts by his father; in consequence he was rather late in starting for this important business on which he was to be despatched. from the time he managed to get off, it was not at all likely that he could be back before 10 o'clock. marguerite's heart quite misgave her when she heard this, but as time moved on, and it came to half-past 7, she was re-assured to find that jacques gaultier was putting away his tools, and finally left the house, saying that he had "work for himself at home, but would return the following morning to finish repairing those rafters that had so suddenly got out of repair." matters seemed better still when her father said he did not feel at all himself that night, and that he thought he would go off to bed. marguerite wished him "good night;" and at 8 o'clock found herself alone and mistress of her own actions. she might now have brought charlie into the house, but that she remembered her father's prohibition of such a thing; and at least she thought it best and fittest to leave him master in his own house, at the same time reserving to herself liberty to control her own actions. this was fair enough. at about 8 o'clock, as agreed on, marguerite took her little lantern, and going round the path to where they had been standing two evenings before, she flashed the light three times trusting that charlie would be able to see it. meanwhile jacques had come out from one of the mill sheds, where he had been concealed, and went quickly up to the room behind the granary, only pausing on his way to tell old pierre that he was there. we will leave him waiting for his prey, with a dark sardonic smile on his ill-favoured countenance, and return to marguerite, who is waiting in the granary for her lover, confident that "all is well," and having no thoughts but pleasant ones concerning the coming meeting. even the remembrance of hirzel's absence brings no disquietude with it. her thoughts shape themselves into a blessing when her brother's bright manly face comes before her, and then she bends all her attention to listen for charlie's approach. she had been waiting for rather more than an hour, when she heard her name called softly; then up charlie scrambled, and when standing on the wheel his head comes just half way up the window. "well, here i am, marguerite; i hope you were not alarmed at the time i have taken, but i was on duty when i saw your signal, and it was some little time before i could get away." "i was getting a little anxious, charlie, but 'all is well' now that you have come." "ah, that is right! but how are you to-night, little woman--all the fancies fled?" "almost charlie, but still not quite; you will think me very foolish, i know, but everything was so beautifully arranged for my seeing you easily to-night that i can't help thinking that some one else has been arranging too for some purpose of his own." "come, come, you little croaker, try and put such thoughts out of your pretty head, and remember i 'deserve the fair' after having been so 'brave' as to mount this rickety wheel, but i wish you would take this parcel from me; the bobbins are in it, which i have perilled my life to bring! i hope you see my devotion clearly, eh?" "i do, indeed, charlie, and now i shall work all the better and be more in earnest; i don't mean you to have all the work on your shoulders when we marry; i know i shall be able to get sale for my lace amongst the beautiful ladies you tell me of in england." "ah, marguerite, that is just what i wanted to speak to you about; i suppose your father still wishes you to marry that rascal gaultier? by the way, i believe he or some one very like him was sneaking round the cliffs on monday night. after i left you, i fancied i saw him; it might be _only_ fancy. did you see anything of him? "i wish--." * * * * * alas! poor charlie! will you speak again to finish that sentence and tell what you wish? for suddenly the mill wheel has turned round with a tremendous crash, and the brave young soldier has been hurled down! and marguerite, what of her? with one agonized cry she rushed to the door intending to run outside to see if anything could be done for charlie, when she came face to face with jacques gaultier! in an instant it all flashed on her that he must have wrought this terrible work, and, overcome by grief and horror, she sank down in a deadly faint. bad man as he was, jacques was really overcome at the consequences of his act, for he thought he had also killed marguerite. he called loudly to her father, who came up hurriedly. he was also seriously alarmed when his gaze rested on his child lying like one dead on the floor. between them they carried her downstairs and laid her on her bed. they applied such restoratives as suggested themselves, but as everything was for sometime quite unavailing, a more miserable pair it would have been difficult to discover. hirzel now came in. he was running upstairs to the granary when his father called him in to see if he could do anything for his poor sister. "a pretty night's work this," he said, when he came into the room and saw his sister lying there. at this moment she opened her eyes, and he went close to her and raised her in his arms. with an expression of deep thankfulness, marguerite's first words were to send that murderer, jacques gaultier, away out of her sight. hirzel ordered him to leave the room, with more fierceness in his tone than anyone had heard there before. "oh! hirzel, what shall i do without charlie? stay with me, only you, and i will tell you all." hearing this her father left the room, and hirzel bent down and whispered to her--"charlie is alive and well. he told me to tell you this himself." "oh! hirzel, you are deceiving me. how could he be alive after such a dreadful fall? it was terrible." here marguerite's fortitude gave way, and she indulged in a flood of tears, while hirzel looked at her with the masculine helplessness usual on such occasions, and indeed it seemed to cost the fine tender-hearted fellow an effort to keep from joining in them too. at last he said, "well marguerite, if you don't stop, i'll go off, and tell charlie you only cried after you heard he was alive and well." "ah! hirzel, is that not the way with our sex. sometimes, to cry over the best and happiest times while the worst is bravely borne?" hirzel then told marguerite how he had met charlie just outside at the foot of the lane, considerably bruised and knocked about, though without any internal injuries. how he escaped was nothing short of a miracle, one of those things which occasionally happen, perhaps, to show what can be done when there is the will to do it. there was an iron loop which projected about a foot from the walls, this charlie made a spring at after the manner of a gymnast; he caught it, and although it came away in his grasp, yet it broke his fall, and what was of more importance, changed the direction of his course to the brickwork alongside the wheel, instead of the water under it. once on the brickwork he jumped down into the garden, and went out into the lane, where he met hirzel. charlie did not for a moment suspect that there was anything but pure accident in what had happened, and as he met hirzel just at that moment he judged it wisest not to return near the house in case he should get marguerite into trouble; but after telling hirzel to assure his sister that he was safe, he set off to the fortress, little thinking he was supposed to be lying dead at the foot of the moulin huêt cliffs, carried there by the mill stream. marguerite now told to her brother, her suspicions of how all had happened. he wished to go immediately and tax jacques with the crime; but, in deference to his sister's wishes, remained where he was. the noise of the mill wheel turning round suddenly ceased, and on hirzel's going up to ascertain the cause, he found his father tying up the rope in the room behind the granary. this rope passed out of a small round hole in the wall of this room, and round the corner of the house where it was attached to the wheel. the window through which charlie and marguerite had been talking was rather a large one, but had some iron bars across which had prevented marguerite leaning out to see what had become of charlie. this perhaps was as well, for at best his descent would have been extremely trying to look at. the next morning did not bring jacques to finish his work, but in the evening he appeared, after vainly trying to induce marguerite to speak to him, which naturally she was very loath to do, went and commenced his work, which he went steadily on with, though he was very much fatigued by having no rest the preceding night, and now had been out fishing all day. he sat down to rest for a few minutes when he fell asleep. after dark old pierre came round to lock all the doors, as was his nightly custom. looking in and not seeing jacques he supposed he had gone and locked that door also. pierre then went to rest himself, and all were buried in slumber, with the exception of hirzel, who had gone over to jerbourg to acquaint charlie with all that had happened. about 9 o'clock, as charlie and hirzel were coming out of the barracks, they saw flames rising in the direction of the mill. it was but the work of a moment for charlie to run back and get leave for some of his comrades to come with him, and off they set for the mill. on arriving there they found their surmises correct: both house and mill were enveloped in flames. marguerite and her father were safely out, but the latter was in a dreadful state of misery at seeing all his property go like this. charlie went up to him after he had spoken to marguerite, and said he would try and save the wheel for future murders. seeing charlie, whom he fully thought to be dead, and hearing these words, the old man shrank back with horror. he fell on his knees and begged charlie to forgive him, adding that it was not he who had done it, but jacques. charlie raised the old man, saying all should be forgiven and forgotten on one condition. that condition we need hardly state was permission to marry marguerite without further trouble. until pierre had said so charlie, had no idea that he knew any thing of his intended destruction. it saddened him very much and made him very sorry for the old man; however, he had other things to think of, so he set all the other soldiers to hand up water from the mill stream, which was now running for some little time. suddenly a shout from one of the soldiers called charlie's attention, and on going to see what it was, he found him dragging a body out of the mill stream. with some difficulty he recognized jacques gaultier, as it was rather dark just there. jacques revived a little, and told charlie how on waking he had found the room full of smoke, and finding the door locked he broke it down, but the door of the granary resisted all his efforts, so he put all his strength towards tearing the bars from the window. he succeeded in this and got out on the wheel, but directly he tried to get down the rope--which doubtless had been much charred by the flames--gave way, and down he went. he had seen from the window, charlie and his comrades coming, and this endued him with further strength, but all to no purpose. he implored charlie's forgiveness, and turning over with a groan he died. little now remains to be told. owing to the exertions of the soldiers some of the machinery was saved, but the old man never made any use of it; he had too great a horror of anything like a mill after his past experiences. charlie and marguerite were soon married. they lived at castle cornet for some time, and after the restoration went with the regiment to england, where marguerite could display her loyalty undisturbed. hirzel remained heart-whole to the last we hear of him, and after his father's death went and lived with his sister in england, to see for himself some of the wonders which charlie had described to him in his own little island home. transcriber's note: inconsistent hyphenation and spelling in the original document have been preserved. obvious typographical errors have been corrected. italic text is denoted by _underscores_ and bold text by =equal signs=. [illustration] _beautiful britain_ _the channel islands_ _by_ _joseph e. morris b.a._ _london adam & charles black_ _soho square w_ _1911_ contents chapter page i. jersey 5 ii. guernsey 32 iii. alderney, sark, and the lesser islands 53 index 63 list of illustrations 1. st. peter port, guernsey _frontispiece_ facing page 2. the casquet rocks and lighthouse 9 3. mont orgueil castle, jersey 16 4. la corbière lighthouse, jersey 25 5. the needle rock, grève au lançon, jersey 27 6. the pea stacks, jerbourg, guernsey 30 7. moulin huet, guernsey 32 8. herm and jethou from guernsey 43 9. a field of chrysanthemums in guernsey 46 10. the coupée, sark 49 11. the sister rocks, alderney 56 12. noirmont point, jersey _on the cover_ the channel islands chapter i jersey if on a fine day we take our stand on one of the terraces, or battlements, of mont orgueil castle--and there is hardly a pleasanter spot in jersey in which to idle away a sunny summer afternoon--we shall realize more completely than geography books can tell us that the channel islands really constitute the last remnants of the ancient norman dukedom that still belong to the english crown. for there, across the water, not more than twenty miles away, and stretching from north of carteret far southwards towards granville and mont st. michel, is the long white line of the norman coast itself--on a clear day it is even possible to make out the tall, twin spires of coutances, half a dozen miles inland, crowning, like lincoln or ely, their far-seen hill. no part of france, it is true, approaches so closely to jersey as cap de la hague (the extreme north-west point of the cotentin) approaches to the north-east corner of alderney. still, under certain atmospheric conditions--such, for example, as wordsworth experienced when he wrote his fine sonnet headed _near dover, september, 1802_--the "span of waters"--hardly greater than the straits of dover themselves--really seems almost to shrink to the dimensions of "a lake or river bright and fair." contrast with this proximity the long stretches of open sea that separate these islands from weymouth or southampton, and we begin to realize how, physically at any rate, jersey is more properly france than england: elle est pour nous la france, et, dans son lit des fleurs, elle en a le sourire et quelquefois les pleurs. the impression thus gained is hardly diminished when we quit our lofty watch-tower and descend to the plain. the channel islands are doubtless destined in the end to be wholly anglicized, but the process is one of imperceptible transition. a curious french patois, that is really the last relics of the ancient norman speech, is still the common language of the people. "it is probably," says mr. bicknell, in his charming _little guide_, "the nearest approach now extant to the french spoken at the time of the norman conquest by the normans in england." french is also the language used commonly in the country churches; and it is strange to follow the familiar english liturgy rendered thus in a foreign tongue. the channel islands, though jealously retaining their ancient independence, and as separate in many respects from england as are canada and australia, are yet integrally part of the established english church. the reformation freed them from the yoke of coutances only to subject them to the yoke of winchester. french, too, or rather norman, is the curious "clameur de haro" that plays so strange a part in the ancient island law. this is the regular machinery, in actions connected with real estate, to maintain the existing _status in quo_ till the action can be fought out at length; and in jersey is set in motion by the plaintiff himself, whereas in england it is necessary to invoke the courts of law. "at the disputed place the aggrieved person, in the presence of two witnesses, orders the aggressor or his agent to desist by exclaiming: 'haro! haro! haro! a l'aide, mon prince, on me fait tort.' after this he denounces the aggressor by exclaiming: 'je vous ordonne de quitter cet ouvrage'; upon which, unless he desist instantly, he is liable to be punished for breach of the king's authority, the property being supposed to be under the king's special protection from the moment the 'cry' is made." afterwards the action is tried; and, of course, if it prove that the complainant has invoked the "haro" wrongly (the word is said by some to be derived from the frankish "haran," to cry out, or shout; but by others to be a corrupted form of "ah rollo"--the first norman duke--or "ah rou"--oh my king), he is liable to be fined by the court. it is sometimes said that this strange process was in constant use in normandy long before the arrival of rollo and his fierce followers from the north. [illustration: the casquet rocks and lighthouse. this group of rocks lies n.n.e. of guernsey, and is passed by the steamers which serve the islands from england.] french, again, is the architecture of the churches, that in some ways has no parallel in england. french, in many particulars, is the aspect of the towns, whose long rows of whitewashed houses, with their never-ending sun-blinds, testify to a warmth and sunlight too conspicuously rare in england. actually french are many of the faces that one encounters in the streets or on the quays. the channel islands of late years have become a favourite touring-ground for summer visitors from france, who so seldom venture to cross the channel to explore the beauties of england itself. the admirable little _guides joanne_ now include a volume on the _iles anglaises de la manche_. it is amusing, however, to read in this work that in one respect at least jersey is still definitely english. "l'observation stricte du dimanche règne à saint-hélier comme en angleterre. la ville déserte, avec ses boutiques fermées, offre un silence sépulchral." but the closed shops, if not the sepulchral silence, are now becoming common in france itself. mont orgueil, where we stand, is not a bad starting-point from which to commence our exploration of jersey. happy, indeed, the visitor who arrives at this little port from france--and the steamer comes from carteret in little more than an hour. most english tourists, on the other hand, make jersey first at st. helier, which happens to be a town of considerable dulness, and compares very badly with st. peter port, in guernsey. mont orgueil, however, may be reached at once from st. helier by one of the two strange little railways that traverse the south coast of the island. the traveller should quit the train at the previous station of gorey village, and walk thence across gorey common to the castle. this last, placed bravely on its boss of rugged rock, grows more and more impressive the nearer we approach it. superb in situation, and unusually picturesque, this "hill of pride" has yet few features of real architectural interest. parts of it date from about the end of the twelfth century, and the archæologist, of course, will gather "sermons" from every stone of it. but the ordinary sight-seer will be best delighted with the picturesque approach up long flights of steps past successive gateways; with the beautiful views of land and sea to be got from its towers; and, best of all, by the general view of the castle itself, dominating the little harbour that crouches below its walls. the structure is built of a soft-red granite, that is very pleasant to look on, and not least so in spring, when its broken walls are beautifully variegated with a thousand brilliantly orange wallflowers. one is reminded for a moment of the famous verse- a rose-red city, half as old as time-which is said to have won the newdigate prize for dean burgon's poem on _petra_. nor is mont orgueil by any means lacking in tragic "foot-notes" to history. william prynne had been condemned to lifelong imprisonment by the star chamber in 1634, and to lose both his ears in the pillory. two years previously he had published his _histriomastix_, "a volume of over a thousand pages," in which he had upheld, with many ancient and modern instances, the immorality of the drama and of play-acting. unfortunately, at about this time henrietta maria had herself taken part in some private theatricals, and a certain passage in the index, "reflecting on the character of female actors in general, was construed as an aspersion on the queen." for this, and other offences, he received the savage sentence, which was carried into execution with unrelenting cruelty. at first he was imprisoned in the tower; but three years later (having in the meanwhile been found guilty of another "seditious libel," and branded on both cheeks) he was removed, first to carnarvon castle, and afterwards to mont orgueil. with the meeting of the long parliament, in 1640, prynne was immediately set at liberty. in jersey he had occupied an enforced and tedious leisure by indulging a propensity for verse-making. his _mount orgueil, or divine and profitable meditations_, was published in 1641; and _a pleasant purge for a roman catholic_ in 1642; "rhyme," says mr. c. h. firth, in the _dictionary of national biography_, "is the only poetical characteristic they possess." a line or two may be quoted from _mount orgueil_ as a sample: _mount orgueil castle_ is a lofty pile, within the easterne parts of _jersy isle_, seated upon _a rocke_, full large and high, close by the sea-shore, next to normandie. the poet then goes on to tell us how this stronghold is sometimes assaulted--but assaulted to no purpose--by sea and wind, "two boystrous foes": for why this fort is built upon a _rocke, and so by christs owne verdict free from shocke of floods and winds; which on it oft may beate, yet never shake it_, but themselves defeate. less than a decade later and the walls of mont orgueil witnessed still blacker tragedy. the quarrel of the bandinels and the carterets is an ugly page of history that almost recalls in its unrelenting ferocity some of the worst clan "vendettas" of the highlands. the trouble began, apparently, with the action of sir philip de carteret, when governor of jersey, in attempting to deprive david bandinel--the writer does not know the rights and wrongs of the quarrel--of part of his tithes as dean of the island. shortly after this the civil war began in england, and the channel islands were immediately plunged into internecine strife. philip de carteret was leader of the royalists, while bandinel espoused the cause of the parliament. the latter at first was triumphant, and carteret and his wife, elizabeth, were respectively besieged by the parliamentary troops, the one in elizabeth castle, and the other in mont orgueil. carteret was not quite sixty years old, but the severities of the siege were too great for him. there were wrongs, no doubt, on both sides; but the puritans seem certainly to have acted on occasion with a surly lack of generosity that goes far to atone for the brutal persecution by the royalist party of a man like prynne. in 1644, when colonel morris was besieged in pontefract, we read in the diary of nathan drake that "the enemy basely stayed all wine from coming to the castle for serving of the communion upon easter day, although forbus (their governor) had graunted p'tection for the same, and one browne of wakefield said if it was for our damnation we should have it, but not for our solvation." similarly, in jersey, the parliamentary committee, of whom dean bandinel was one, refused the dying sir philip the last consolations of religion, and even (according to some accounts) the presence of his wife. this, too, after an appeal so piteous as might well have drawn iron tears down pluto's cheek, and made hell grant what love did seek. send me mr. la cloche, implored the sick man, "to administer unto me such comforts as are necessary and usual in these extremities, and that you would permitt my poor wife to come unto me, to doe me that last duty, as to close my eyes. the lord forgive you, as i doe forgive you all." one is glad to read, however, in the _dictionary of national biography_, that lady carteret was in fact allowed to visit her husband, though almost at his very last gasp. "when the flooring of [st. ouen's] church was altered 229 years afterwards, the body of sir philip enclosed in a leaden shell was uncovered, when it was found by the late francis le maistre to be as white as wax, to have suffered very little decay, and to measure 6 feet 4 inches." presently the "jade fortune" changed her favours, and the island was recovered for the king by sir george carteret, nephew and son-in-law to its former governor. dean bandinel and his son james, the rector of st. mary's, were immediately clapped into prison in mont orgueil castle, in the same cell that had formerly been occupied by prynne. it does not appear that they were treated harshly, but sir george was a man of cruel severity, and it may well be that they dreaded his further resentment. anyhow, father and son resolved on a romantic escape. at about three o'clock in the morning, on the stormy night of february 10, 1644, they attempted to lower themselves from the window of their cell by a rope made of knotted napkins, sheets, and pieces of cord. "it is improbable that they had reconnoitred this place in the daytime," says durell, "for had they been aware of the great elevation, they would never have made the attempt, as long as they were in their senses." durell wrote in 1837, when the tour de mont (completed by henry paulet in 1553) was in existence for the whole of its height. this is said to have been 200 feet high, and the place of imprisonment of the bandinels was immediately under its battlements. the building was supposed to be dangerous, and is now pulled down to its basement. anyhow, when james bandinel came to the bottom of the rope--he was the first to venture on the perilous descent--he found it was much too short. he allowed himself to drop on the rocks below, and was seriously hurt by the fall. his father, still less fortunate, was only halfway down, when the flimsy rope parted in two. he was thus dashed to the earth from a much greater height than his son, and was found lying there next morning in a dying condition. the son, after wrapping his insensible old father in his cloak, had attempted to make good his own escape. he was caught, however, a few days later, and conducted back in triumph to his cell. that same day the gates of mont orgueil had been opened to allow his father's body to be taken to the grave. david bandinel was buried in st. martin's churchyard, two miles to the north-west of mont orgueil by the faldouet road. i have searched for his grave on the east side of the churchyard, but there seems now to be no memorial, and the hawthorn that once marked it has vanished. it is said, however, to be in close proximity to the tombstones of lucy and mary roche jackson. his wife and son were afterwards laid by his side. [illustration: mount orgueil castle, jersey. the name, meaning "mount of pride," is said to have been given to the castle after sir reginald de carteret's successful defence of it against du guesclin in 1374.] mont orgueil was unsuccessfully besieged by the french under the leadership of the duc de bourbon and the great bertrand du guesclin, marshal of france (whose splendid tomb may still be seen in the north chapel of st. laurent, at le puy), in 1374. it was in honour of this achievement that it received its present name from thomas, duke of clarence, and brother of henry v. looking southward from mont orgueil at low tide it is possible to realize the extraordinary difficulties that attend the navigation of the jersey seas. the coast from this point to st. aubin is flat, but as far as eye can see the surface of the water is a vast archipelago of broken rocks and reefs. still farther out to sea is the hardly submerged plateau of the minquiers, with here and there a point that just lifts above high water. there is a second stretch of low sandy coast on the west of the island, at st. ouen's bay, guarded in its turn by a second reef of rocks. nor do these exhaust the possibilities of coming to ruin on this iron coast. it is not without reason that the steam-packets from england run in the daytime only in summer, when the long light evenings give every opportunity of picking their way through the narrow passages. the fate of the _stella_ (on the afternoon of maunday thursday, 1899), somewhere in the neighbourhood of the terrible casquets, is still too vivid in men's memories to need re-telling. the exact point of striking is unknown. the _stella_ settled down in the afternoon mist, and no man has ever traced her, or identified her grave in "the vast and wandering" main. most that is best in jersey is identified with its coast, except, perhaps, for the archæologist, who will want to push a little inland, to investigate the ancient churches of st. mary, st. lawrence, and st. peter. inland, too, is the prince's tower, built on the hougue-hambye in the eighteenth century. the mound is associated with a serpent legend, that perhaps has points of contact with the well-known stories of the sockburn and laidley "worms." the old chapel that adjoins it was remodelled by richard mabon, dean of jersey, in 1525. he had returned from a pilgrimage to the holy land, and constructed an imitation of the holy sepulchre; just as opice adornes, a hundred years earlier, had erected the church of jerusalem at bruges. preserved in this now-deserted chapel is a font for the exact parallel of which we shall look in vain in england, though analogous cases occur in our country, and some precisely similar instances may be found in france. attached to the inside of the bowl is a smaller bowl, which was probably meant to catch the drippings of the consecrated water that ran off the baby's head. this is the ceremony demanded in terms by the _rituale romanum_, as cited in mr. f. bond's beautiful book on fonts (p. 60): "ne aqua ex infantis capite in fontem, sed vel in sacrarium baptisterii prope ipsum fontem ex-structum defluat, aut in aliquo vase ad hunc usum parato recepta, in ipsius baptisterii vel in ecclesiæ sacrarium effundatur." modern roman catholic fonts are now often constructed in two separate partitions, and this is said to be the origin of the plural _fonts baptismaux_, of such constant occurrence in france. most of the interest of jersey, however, except its fields of giant cabbage-stalks, and its green lanes of quaint little pollarded trees, will probably be found on the sea-coast, or near it. let us, from mont orgueil, set our faces to the west, calling, on our way towards modern st. helier, at the two ancient parish churches of grouville and st. clement's. in grouville churchyard are buried seven soldiers who fell in a skirmish with a detachment of the french who had been left behind by rullecourt, when he landed on this spot and advanced on st. helier on january 6, 1781. grouville church itself has little interest. like other churches in the island, it is built of granite, and has windows with good flamboyant tracery, except where this last has been cut away for the insertion of ugly "church-warden" sashes. it possesses, however, in the south wall of the south chapel, a very curious feature, the object of which is obscure. this is a niche on the level of the floor, with a late segmental head, and with what seems a broken cavity in the lower part at the back. i do not know whether this was once used as an oven for baking the sacramental wafer, such as those that are sometimes thought to have been found in the surrey churches of limpsfield, nutfield, and dunsfold. st. clement's, a mile to the south, and lying off the direct road to st. helier, should be visited for the sake of its ancient wall-paintings. one of these exhibits st. michael; another st. margaret of antioch, emerging from the body of the dragon, who had vainly tried to swallow her; and another st. barbara of heliopolis, standing near her tower. still more interesting are the scanty relics of the "trois vifs" and the "trois morts"--the legend of the three kings, who, when hunting in the forest, were suddenly confronted by three open graves, or by three hideous skeletons. the classical instance of this morality is in the campo santo at pisa; and there is another fine example, in a kind of vestry, on the south side of the great abbey-church of st. riquier, near abbeville. it was altogether rather a favourite subject with medieval, religious artists, not less than twenty-three examples being recorded in england by mr. keyser, as well as one at ste. marie du chastel, in guernsey. it must not be confounded with the parallel "dance of death," of which there are only five recorded instances, in addition to the one at old st. paul's. there is still a grand example of this last on the back of the north choir stalls, in the strange old abbey-church of la chaise dieu, in central france. st. helier, we have hinted, is a somewhat tedious town; by which we mean only that the place contains few objects of special interest, and is a trifle too large and urban for so very small an island. no doubt some of its aspects are agreeable enough. the parish church is a restored building of small architectural interest, but contains the grave of the gallant major pierson, who fell in jersey, in 1781, in the conflict with the french in the royal square. his adversary, rullecourt, who also perished, is buried on the north of the churchyard. rullecourt landed to the east of st. helier during the night of january 5, and took the town by a sudden assault. the governor, major moses corbet, was captured in his bed; and was forced to sign a capitulation, as well as an order to major pierson to surrender the troops in his charge. pierson, however, charged the enemy in the royal square, where they had barricaded themselves, and fell at the first assault. undeterred by the loss of their leader, the jersey soldiers and militia-men continued fighting, and cleared the french from the town. st. helier possesses yet other claims to historical distinction, in the mystery of james de la cloche. this last was the eldest illegitimate son of charles ii., and is known to have been a jerseyman. his story has recently attracted much attention; and mr. andrew lang, in his _valet's tragedy_, once even went so far as to suggest that de la cloche was "the man with the iron mask." this theory he afterwards abandoned; but it is still stoutly maintained by miss edith carey in her beautiful volume on the channel islands. it is remarkable, indeed, that james de la cloche disappears finally from history after november 16, 1668, whilst "the man with the iron mask" makes his first appearance on the scene on july 19, 1669. de la cloche may also, when in london, have easily learned secrets from his father, as to romish plots, that imperilled the crown of charles ii., and may well have caused anxiety to louis xiv. "doubts," says miss carey, "may be cast on a theory which involves an apparently affectionate father consigning his son to a living tomb, and a king of france spending money and trouble to keep a king of england's secret. but in reply it must be urged that charles's conduct is consistent with all we read in history respecting his cowardly selfishness. in reply to complaints made to him of lauderdale's cruelty in scotland, he said: 'i perceive that lauderdale has been guilty of many bad things against the people of scotland, but i cannot find out that he has acted against my interests.'" charles' headquarters, when a boy in jersey, were in elizabeth castle, whither he was sent by his father for greater safety in 1646. later in the same year he left for fontainebleau, but returned to the channel islands in september, 1649. in the meanwhile the elder charles had perished on the scaffold at whitehall; and jersey, unlike guernsey, still loyalist to the core, was one of the few places--pontefract castle, in yorkshire, was another--where his son was immediately proclaimed as king, on february 17, 1649. elizabeth castle itself is another of those picturesque places of semi-insulation that are not uncommon among historical sites--holy island, and the two mounts st. michael, are other famous examples. at time of low water it is picturesquely approached by a rough and rocky causeway across the sands; but the building itself has been greatly altered, and presents very little archæological interest. from st. helier westward, round the half-moon curve of st. aubin bay, past west park, millbrook, and beaumont, is now largely a crescent of continuous houses. st. aubin's itself is a picturesque little watering-place, with far greater natural advantages than its bigger neighbour. immediately to the south of the town begins at once the fine, red line of granite cliffs, which, turning definitely westward at noirmont point, continues, past portelet and st. brelade's bays, to the south-west corner of the island at corbière point. portelet bay is a charming recess, with the rocky little ile au guerdain in its centre. on the summit of this last is janvrin's tower. it is said that philippe janvrin, returning home from nantes, then desolated with plague, was forced to undergo quarantine in this bay in 1721; and that here the poor wretch died within actual sight of home, but without ever exchanging a word with his wife and children. he was buried at first in the ile au guerdain, but afterwards removed to st. brelade's churchyard. [illustration: la corbière lighthouse, jersey. the white tower stands at the extremity of a particularly dangerous reef.] st. brelade's bay, nearly two miles across, if we measure from le fret to la moye point, is perhaps the most gracious on the jersey coast. the church has a very picturesque outline, with a saddle-backed tower like that of st. sampson's, in guernsey. it was admirably restored a few years ago, when the plaster was stripped from the vaulted roof that is common to most old churches in the channel islands, and is probably analogous to the vaulted roofs of the fortified churches of pembrokeshire. mr. bicknell, however, is wrong in saying that "the interior walls ... look very dignified in their original condition." nothing is more certain than that medieval churches--at any rate in cases where the walls are of rubble masonry--were plastered, and commonly covered with wall-paintings. such plastering and old wall-painting may still be found at st. brelade's in the chapelle ès pécheurs, or fishermen's chapel, that remains in the parish churchyard. these, according to mr. keyser, represent parts of two dooms or final judgments, our lord before herod, an annunciation, the assumption of the virgin, and the offering of the magi. they probably date from the fifteenth century, and the attendant makes them visible by the simple expedient of throwing the light on them with a mirror. the existence of this old chapel side by side with the parish church--the same thing seems formerly to have happened at grouville--is a subject of curious inquiry. chantrey chapels were sometimes built in churchyards--there is still a fourteenth-century example at carew, in pembrokeshire, and there was formerly one at newdigate, in surrey--but these would be generally of later date; whereas the fishermen's chapel is supposed to date from quite the beginning of the twelfth century. in the grounds of the st. brelade's hotel is an ancient cross of the kind that is stated by mr. bicknell formerly to have "stood at nearly every place where four cross roads met in the island." [illustration: the needle rock, grève au lançon, jersey.] the walk across the south coast of jersey, from mont orgueil to the corbière, taking the train for the four dull miles, where there is nothing to see, between st. helier and st. aubin, will probably almost exhaust, except for the archæologist of the dry-as-dust school, the artificial attractions of the island of jersey. of course, there are other antiquities to see: st. ouen's manor, for example, now recently restored, and the ancient house of the carterets; the cromlechs at gorey and the coupéron; and the seven old churches that we have not yet visited. but when we have seen the wall-paintings at st. brelade's and st. clement's; have inspected elizabeth castle, and the curious font at prince's tower; and, above all, have made every stick and stone of mont orgueil our own treasured possession, it will be time for most of us to turn our attention, less to the artificial attractions of jersey, than to its wonderful natural beauties. it is lucky that these lie mostly on the north coast, which is well out of reach of st. helier. it would be sad indeed if this silent succession of bays, stretching in stern sublimity from grosnez point to the long useless breakwater on the south of fliquet bay, were infested with tea-gardens, and boarding-houses, and villas. for this twelve miles of coast is both wholly unspoilt, and one of the loveliest imaginable. brakes, no doubt, in the season, with their hordes of jolly trippers, invade for a few hours the sacred silences of grève de lecq and rozel bay. these, however, are limited to definite times and places; nor will it be hard for the quiet lover of nature to evade their unwelcome gaieties. every inch of this glorious stretch of coast should be walked over, if possible; should often be revisited; and should be lingered over lovingly. where else have these rose-red cliffs a counterpart, jutting out into the bluest, or most emerald, of seas, and haunted by myriads of clanging sea-fowl, unless it be on the borders of lost lyonesse? waters that rest on a granite bed are always of amazing translucency- pleased to watch the waters sleep, round iona green and deep-and those that never rest round the igneous cliffs of jersey are no exception to this beautiful rule. here and there, of course, the explorer will come across some special point of interest, though the coast, to be enjoyed at its best, must always be enjoyed as a whole. at grève de lecq is a cave to visit which thoroughly entails some very rough scrambling, and some rather giddy climbing up an almost vertical cliff. less than two miles to the east, as the crow flies--it adds to the distance enormously to follow all the sinuosities of this deeply indented coast--is the creux-du-vis, or devil's hole--one of those strange, roofless caverns, connecting with the sea by a tunnel through which the tide ebbs and flows, but set back some little distance from the margin of the cliff, that are found again in sark, in the creux derrible and pot. in many respects they resemble the famous "pot-holes" that occur in the mountain limestone of the craven district in north-west yorkshire, though their origin, it is clear, is wholly different. creux, of course, is connected with the french _creuser_, to dig; and "derrible," which has nothing whatever to do with "terrible," is an old norman word, unknown to modern french, that really expresses the same idea: "cavité d'un rocher formée par un éboulement de terre, attenant à un précipice." "creux" is used again of artificial cromlechs. east of the creux-du-vis is the mouriers waterfall, where a little stream leaps down the rocks into the sea. the path along the cliff is rather giddy, and those who take it must remember that a slip may be followed by fatal consequences, like the accident that happened to mrs. guille, in 1871, at the gouffre, in guernsey. the steep grass slopes in spring are plentifully sprinkled with the dainty yellow blossoms of the little wild narcissus. beyond sorel point comes suddenly the deep hollow of la houle, guarded by granite cliffs of sheer sublimity; and beyond this, in long succession, round innumerable intervening points, come mourier, and bonne nuit, and giffard, and bouley, and rozel, and fliquet bays. a week may well be spent, and more than a week, in leisurely exploration of this gloriously broken coast. or the visitor who has less energy, or is weary of much scrambling, may sit here day after day in the sunshine, on promontory or cliff, watching the "blind wave" at its never-ending business of "feeling round its ocean hall." there are less pleasant ways than this of spending a summer holiday for those whose brains are fagged by weeks of dull work in london. and always across the water, far-seen on the dim horizon, are the faint grey lines of the cotentin, and the cliffs of fairy-like sark. [illustration: the pea stacks (tas de pois), jerbourg, guernsey. isolated and wall-sided masses of rock of this type are typical of the channel islands.] chapter ii guernsey jersey, with larger acreage and a bigger population, is content to form a kingdom by itself; guernsey is fain to ally itself with its immediate neighbour, sark, and even seek bonds of union with alderney, twenty miles away. the diversity maintained jealously in these little islands, which an englishman is too hastily accustomed to regard in a lump, is complex and even amusing. just a few trivial details must suffice. in guernsey the toad is altogether unknown, except for some few stuffed specimens in the guille-allès museum; whereas jersey exhibits an exaggerated species that is supposed to be quite peculiar to itself. the mole, again, though common in jersey and alderney, is unknown in guernsey, though the last has a field-vole of its own. guernsey, in fact, is supposed to have become an island at least 14,000 years ago, whilst jersey was torn asunder from france not more than 3,000 years before christ. guernsey thus received only the continental fauna that flourished at the period of its final insulation. all the islands, like iceland, are exempt from poisonous snakes. in domestic animals, again, the distinction is strongly marked. jersey has a picturesque cow of its own, mottled white and yellow, placid, and rather big. guernsey, on the other hand, has a smaller breed of cattle, much more wiry in movement, and a kind of tawny red. beasts from guernsey and alderney are allowed to inter-breed, but the jersey cattle are looked on as undesirable aliens, and sternly prohibited from the sister state. in all three instances the cattle are tethered when at pasture, as happens also in some parts of france. the animal, thus driven to forage in a circle, perhaps crops the ground more closely than when free to range at will. [illustration: moulin huet, guernsey. a particularly attractive bay on the southern side of the island.] guernsey, whatever were its merits half-a-hundred years ago, will now, perhaps, be found the dullest of the channel islands. owing to the frenzy for intensive cultivation, the inland parts of the island are now literally covered with glass. acre after acre of ugly rows of hothouses have displaced over most of the interior what once were pleasant fields. attached to each such settlement is an ugly concrete house, and each has a skeleton iron windmill, for pumping up water, that completes the repellent aspect of the scene. the writer has travelled over most of the island on foot to explore its twelve old churches, and investigate its coast. frankly, he is driven to put on record that he found it a dismal task. features, of course, remain of interest and beauty, if one is willing to walk about in blinkers, and seldom raise one's eyes above the ground. the old, granite-built farmhouses, standing back, as a rule, but a little from the road, are uncommon, and extremely picturesque. inland guernsey, again, possesses one single glory that is almost unknown in jersey. everywhere in the island, commencing even with the very suburbs of st. peter port itself, the low, green, sod walls that divide the little fields are covered with millions of saffron primroses. such a wealth of primroses i have never seen elsewhere--not even in the remotest lanes of the surrey or sussex wealds. how the primrose has survived in such excessive fertility, with so huge a population, and with such bitter cultivation, is a problem easily stated, but not very easily solved. whether it is likely long to survive is a question one fears to ask. in sark, again, the primrose--though here it is no marvel--carpets the ground like daisies on a "wet bird-haunted english lawn"; like daisies, too, in switzerland, the stalks of the sark primrose grow to remarkable length. but as soon as we cross to jersey--and when the writer noted this strong contrast, he crossed directly from guernsey to jersey, and almost directly from jersey to sark--the primrose is seen no more by thousands in the hedge-side. the only spot where i have noticed it growing in profusion in the larger island was on the prehistoric "hougue" at prince's tower. guernsey, however, though thus irritatingly spoilt in its interior--for the visitor comes to see beautiful scenery, and not to assist at a horticultural triumph--still possesses in its south coast a feature of distinction that neither recklessness nor greed of money has so far been able to spoil. it also possesses in st. peter port a capital so pleasant, and withal so picturesque, that it makes one desiderate all the more keenly the beautiful environment in which it was once set. approaching this port in the early morning light, the colour and grouping of the little town seem almost fantastically correct. surely this more resembles an imaginary sketch than a city actually realized in this commonplace, workaday world. st. peter's church, in the middle of the picture, has just the required outline, and is set in just the right place. the tall, brown houses behind it, with their mellow red roofs, are of just the right colour, and in just the right number. the new church of st. barnabas is just rightly designed, and is built just exactly where it ought to be built. and lastly, the wooded amphitheatre behind all, with its sprinkling of white villas, is just neither more nor less than such a background ought to be. a composition like this on the drop-scene of a theatre would scarcely surprise us, but here we rub our eyes. we land; and the cheerful anticipation of the sea-view is hardly hurt at all by contact with actual fact. a pleasanter little town than this, or more full of bustling happiness, is not readily conceived. darker aspects no doubt are there, but they do not obtrude on the casual view. castle cornet, immediately on our left as we approach the harbour, holds much the same position to st. peter port as elizabeth castle holds to st. helier. castle cornet, indeed, is connected with the mainland by a causeway; but as a building it is equally uninteresting. in fact, the only object of antiquarian interest in st. peter port is the old parish church, so conspicuous on the quay. this has a central tower, with a good leaded spire, that is luckily not twisted like the leaded spire at chesterfield. at the side is a small cote for the sanctus bell, exactly as at barnstaple, in devonshire. more frequently these cotes were placed on the east gable of the nave, whilst at oxenton, in gloucestershire, the sanctus bell swings to the present day in a curious little opening high up on the south face of the fifteenth-century tower. it is possible, too, or even probable, that the curious "low-side" windows--once absurdly called "leper windows"--which generally occur, when they occur at all, towards the south-west corner of the chancel, were used to enable the sanctus bell to be rung through their opening by hand. on the ringing of this bell the passer-by would bow his head in reverential awe, just as the peasants in millet's picture bow their heads at the ringing of the angelus. inside, the chief feature of st. peter's church is the strangeness of the nave arcades, the arches of which spring from piers that are only two or three feet high. notice also the flamboyant tracery of the windows, so typical of the channel islands, and the very striking piscina in the south aisle of the choir. historically the chief interest of guernsey is comparatively recent, and centres round the residence here of victor hugo. after the _coup d'état_ hugo settled first in jersey, where he occupied a house in marine terrace. but the english government, which maintained friendly relations with the new french imperialism, pleased him little better than that of his native land. his conduct, indeed, was as wantonly tactless as that of an earlier fellow-poet. if shelley flaunted his tract on the _necessity of atheism_ in the face of grave clerical dons at oxford, hugo and his comrades were equally reckless when they imagined that _la justice_ or _la verité_ were wronged. "encore un pas," cried this enthusiast bravely, "et l'angleterre sera une annexe de l'empire français, et jersey un canton de l'arrondissement de coutances." the occasion of this outbreak was the banishment of three of his compatriots from the island in 1855. "et maintenant," thundered the poet in retort, "expulsez nous." whether he intended it or not, he was taken at his word. the protest was written on october 17, 1855, and friday, november 2, 1855, saw the expulsion of the whole band, 33, who had signed the defiant document. hugo at once removed to st. peter port, and established himself there in hauteville house. here he resided from 1855 to 1870, when sedan rendered possible his return to france, and the house still belongs to his family. to the guernsey visitor it is now a place of pious pilgrimage, not less than that other old house, in paris, in the charming place des vosges. much of the furniture and fittings remains almost exactly as he left them fifty years ago, and much is of real historic interest. thus a table in the red dining-room once belonged to charles ii. of england; whilst a fire-screen was worked by madame pompadour, and some bead-work belonged to queen christina of sweden. from the upper windows it is possible to enjoy the same lovely view towards sark, with jethou and herm in the middle distance, that is got from all the upper parts of st. peter port--as, for instance, from the grounds of the priaulx library, or from the gardens of the old government house hotel. it is pleasanter to picture victor hugo at guernsey, writing here his novel, _les travailleurs de la mer_--the scene of which is laid at torteval, in the extreme south-west corner of the island--and always looking longingly towards the invisible shores of france, than to dwell on certain other episodes in the history of the island, which, however disagreeable, cannot lightly be put aside. the tale of bailiff gaultier de la salle, though wholly misconceived, will not quickly be displaced from its niche in island tradition. he is said to have resided in the ville au roi, though it is hardly likely that the house now pointed out as his is really as old as the fourteenth century. a neighbour called massey had an easement to draw water which took him in front of the bailiff's windows. annoyed at this invasion of his treasured privacy, gaultier laid a trap to get rid of the intruder. doubtless he had read the old history of joseph, and of the silver cup that was hidden in the corn-sack of benjamin. but gaultier's intention was far less kindly, and he concealed the two silver cups in massey's wheat-rick in order that massey might be accused of their theft. here is some deep confusion in the story, for we should naturally have expected that the discovery of the wine-cups would be made the machinery for fixing the crime on the victim. why else should the cups be hidden in massey's wheat-rick, when they might easily have been hidden in some much surer place? anyhow, the bailiff, suborning perjured evidence, fixed so black a case on massey that the judge pronounced sentence of death. then, at the last moment, there burst into the court-house a witness who had found the cups that very morning in taking down the rick. whatever evidence had procured the condemnation of massey might well have seemed quadrupled by this new and damning fact. but the inconsistent story makes the bailiff exclaim in anger: "thou wretch, did i not tell thee not to touch that rick?" convicted thus by the words of his own mouth, the bailiff was sent to the self-same death as he had schemed for a fellow-citizen. the place of his execution--an oblong recess in the wall, not unlike those in which road-makers break stones--is still pointed out at the "friquet-au-gibet"; and a rudely-scratched cross on the pavement near at hand indicates the spot where the criminal received his last communion on the way to the gallows. miss edith carey styles this story "pure invention," and thinks that it "is probably derived from a confused recollection of the doings and motives of the rival 'wicked bailiff' of jersey, hoste nicolle." there was really, however, as miss carey establishes, a gaultier (walter) de la salle, who was condemned to death in 1320 for having assisted in imprisoning a certain ranulph gaultier in castle cornet, "and there wickedly killing him by various tortures." [illustration: herm and jethou from guernsey. these two little islands add greatly to the picturesqueness of the scenery of the eastern shores of guernsey.] another dark picture, and unhappily more authentic, is the burning, with attendant circumstances of extraordinary brutality, of three poor heretic women, by order of dean amy and bailiff helier gosselin, on july 18, 1556. the mother, katherine cauches, was tied to a stake in the middle, with a married daughter on either hand--guillemine gilbert and perotine massey. an attempt was made to strangle them before the faggots were lighted--a merciful privilege that was also extended to women in executions for "petty treason"--but one of them, at least, fell alive into the fire. this poor wretch, perotine massey, the wife of a protestant pastor, was delivered of a baby in the middle of the flames. the child was rescued from the burning by a man called house, but cast back again by order of the bailiff. this repulsive incident is preserved by foxe, and is interwoven by tennyson in _queen mary_: sir, in guernsey, i watch'd a woman burn; and in her agony, the mother came upon her--a child was born- and, sir, they hurl'd it back into the fire. st. peter port is an admirable centre from which to visit every quarter of the compact little island; but, indeed, as already adumbrated, there is but little in guernsey (except for the antiquarian) that is really worth seeing outside its capital, except the south coast. st. sampson's may be visited for its picturesque church, which is one of the oldest and most interesting on the island. the road by which we gain it is so ugly--one continued line of houses--that no one need hesitate to use the electric tram, which was one of the earliest of its kind in the british dominions. it is hardly worth while to get out on the way to visit the poor remains of ivy castle: the situation of the ruins is unusually unpicturesque, and the ruins themselves are uninteresting. opposite st. sampson's itself, across the busy little harbour, is the rather better ruin of vale castle. this would be exceedingly pleasant to look on, were it not for the mammoth granite-quarries that pave the streets of westminster, but effectually disfigure what were once the charms of guernsey. the castle itself, like ivy castle, is little more than a shell; in fact, the latter has the additional credit of what is possibly a chapel, with a rudely vaulted stone roof. ivy castle, moreover, boasts at least authentic pedigree, having first been built--if the date be really right--by robert, duke of normandy, before the norman conquest; whereas of the origin of vale castle practically nothing is known. its ancient title, le château de st. michel l'archange, is perhaps responsible for the tradition that it was built by monks from mont st. michel as a place of protection for the neighbouring priory in case of a sudden invasion. from vale castle, if we like, we may cross the island--here less than a couple of miles broad--to vale church, built on the edge of what was once a sea-creek, but has long since silted up, or been reclaimed. it is pleasanter, however, to follow round the coast, past bordeaux harbour, and across breezy l'ancresse common, especially as this takes us past the l'autel de déhus, and the l'autel des vardes, the two finest remaining dolmens in the channel islands. the finest of all is supposed to have been that which was discovered behind st. helier in 1785, and which was "unanimously voted" to the then governor, marshal conway, "in a moment of enthusiasm." the marshal, unfortunately, in another moment of enthusiasm, carried it off and re-erected it at his country seat in berkshire. these channel island dolmens are of wholly different type from the familiar cromlechs of the mushroom pattern of kits coty house, near aylesford, or of pentre evan, in pembrokeshire. they are, in fact, considerable, stone-built, subterranean burial-chambers, with traces in some instances of a long succession of interments. the islanders call them "pouquelayes"; which is derived by miss carey from either the celtic _pwca_, a fairy, and _lies_, a place, or from _pouq_, an excavation, and _lekh_, a stone. in this connection it is interesting that they are supposed to be haunted by fairies--one is called the creux des fées, and another the roche à la fée--who are supposed to "bring ill-luck on those who interfere with them, a fact which has saved many of them from the spoiler." "the restorer, however," adds mr. bicknell dryly, "has unfortunately not been idle, and the little people do not appear to have found a punishment to 'fit the crime' in this case." unhappily the same must be admitted in the case of the navvies employed on the harbour works in alderney, who "amused themselves by smashing up all the megaliths that they could lay their hands on." many of the relics from these cist-vaens--bones and pottery--have found their way into the lukis museum at st. peter port. vale church itself, not far from the grand havre, and in a flat, unlovely neighbourhood, is possibly the most interesting, architecturally, in the island. the chancel arch should be noticed, with its chevron ornament; the chancel, vaulted in two compartments (in contrast with the rude, pointed vaults of most of the other churches); the piscina in the aisle; and the wall arcade. another striking feature is the brackets for images on the columns of the arcade, between the nave and its aisle. a series like this is uncommon; though there is a group of churches in west yorkshire--sometimes supposed to have been built by the tempest family--kirkby malham is the finest--which has traces of canopied niches in the same position. the finest single niche that the writer knows of this kind is on the south side of the nave in the fine, fifteenth-century church of lechlade, in gloucestershire. towards the west end of the churchyard is another tumble-down dolmen. thus christians of the twentieth century are buried in the same soil that received the bones of their neolithic ancestors no one knows how many thousands of years ago. [illustration: a field of chrysanthemums in guernsey. the climate encourages the growing of flowers, and the northern half of the island is mostly devoted to this industry.] though vale is not uninteresting, it is with a feeling of relief that one turns one's back on this north corner of the island that once perhaps was so beautiful, but is now so hopelessly spoilt. the glory of guernsey, as already stated, is now wholly confined to its south coast. moulin huet is a gracious bay, too well known from photographs to need further description; whilst the little saints bay to the west of it--a shrine within a shrine--is almost equally charming. westward from icart point, itself a splendid promontory, the coast sweeps round in another great curve to la moye point; beyond which, again, to pleinmont, at the south-west corner of the island, the cliffs, though everywhere deeply indented, continue, on the whole, a more uniform direction. the great hollow between icart and la moye points is apparently nameless, unless it be icart bay. there is no authoritative ordnance map of the channel islands, to which one might adhere whether right or wrong; and the best map of guernsey with which i am acquainted, in the late mr. c. b. black's guide-book, gives the name icart to the eastern recess of the great main bay, and petit bot and portelet to the two small recesses to the west of it. anyhow, petit bot is the most secret and intimate of the three, and entirely picturesque with its disused mill and martello tower. this is one of the points on the coast to which the chars-à-bancs descend from st. peter port; and the drive down the glen by which we approach it is delightful. the next calling point is le gouffre, just beyond la moye point, which here runs out into the sea in long ribs of warm red granite. here the cars generally halt for a couple of hours, whilst the tripper feasts on lobster in the pleasant little inn. the gouffre may be taken as roughly the centre of the grand seven miles of cliff line of this splendid south coast. the section hence to the west is less frequently explored, though the picturesque cave of the creux mahie, again roughly halfway, is often paid a visit, and is well worth visiting. pleinmont and torteval come into the "toilers of the deep"; and this corner of the island, the farthest of all from st. peter port, is luckily less injured than the rest. the north-west coast of guernsey, from pleinmont point to vale, past the huge sweeping hollows--some of them singularly symmetrical--of rocquaine, perelle, vazon, and cobo bays, is chiefly a matter of rocky beach and of slight elevations shelving down in gentle declivity to the sea. the glass-houses, moreover, which have languished much at torteval, flourish again in amazing vigour as we draw near cobo bay. there are two points of interest, however, in this corner of the island that justify even the dull, direct journey by which we approach them from st. peter port. the first of these is the little chapel of st. apolline, which is stated in all the guide-books, on documentary evidence, to have been founded by nicolas henry in 1394, or thereabouts. even documentary evidence, in architectural matters, is not always to be trusted. only the day before writing these lines the writer was re-visiting the lady chapel at st. albans cathedral, which is said to have been built--again on documentary evidence--_circa_ 1310; though the inventory lately published by the royal commission on historical monuments adds cautiously: "the tracery of these windows ... is very advanced in character for the date." the tracery, indeed, is so advanced, if the date be really right, as hopelessly to confuse all previously held notions as to the systematic evolution of english architecture. that the building was at any rate finished by this date is altogether incredible. i notice that the late lord grimthorpe, in his pugnacious little handbook, after setting out the evidence from the abbey records, adds significantly, "but the style of the windows suggests a much later date." and the case is much the same with this chapel of st. apolline. on october 13, 1392, nicolas henry received permission from the monastery of mont st. michel, in normandy, to alienate certain fields to provide an endowment for the chapel of notre dame de la perelle, _which he had recently erected_; and in an act of the royal court, dated june 6, 1452, we come across the phrase, "la chapelle de notre dame de la perelle appellée la chapelle sainte apolline." certainly the identification seems complete. on the other hand, the writer believes that no one visiting this chapel who has previously read professor baldwin brown's beautiful volume on saxon architecture--and it so happened that the writer paid his first visit to the channel islands almost immediately after its perusal--can fail to detect in this building quite a number of _criteria_ that are there set out as indicating, at any rate in england, a pre-conquest era of building. unfortunately i have kept no note of these features, but the impression then made on my mind is vivid. i may, of course, be wrong; but it seems to me at least possible that we have here the solitary survivor--far older than the fishermen's chapel at st. brelade's in jersey--of those many chapels that are known to have been built in the channel islands in the eighth and ninth centuries by the successors of st. magloire. [illustration: the coupée, sark. a romantic and almost terrifying pathway among the precipitous rocks of the island.] the other point of interest in the neighbourhood of l'erée is the rocky islet of lihou, approached by a causeway across the sands, or more properly the rocks, but only at low tide. here are the scanty fragments of the priory and chapel of notre dame de la roche, apparently a cell to the monastery of mont st. michel, which seems to have had so much to do with the spiritual matters of the channel islands. the tide at st. michael's mount is said to rush up across the level sands more quickly than the fleetest horse can gallop, and visitors to lihou will be well advised to remember that here again its onset is unexpected and swift. at l'erée village is another dolmen, the creux des fées, to which passing allusion has already been made. st. peter's church in this neighbourhood--in full, st. pierre du bois--is perhaps the handsomest, though not necessarily the most interesting, of all the twelve churches in the island, and exhibits some flamboyant work of a very pleasing character. chapter iii alderney, sark, and the lesser islands hitherto, in dealing with the two larger of the channel islands, we have found their claims to natural beauty in their coasts. the interior of jersey is no doubt pleasant, with its lush-green valleys running north and south, with its quiet little villages, and with its never-ending potato-fields. the interior of guernsey, on the other hand, is frankly hideous, save here and there a cottage, or a picturesque old farm, hidden in the folding of some safely secluded dell. but in both cases alike the real distinction of the island is limited to cliffs that for warmth of colour and strangeness of contortion can surely be paralleled in cornwall alone. sark, on the contrary, is almost wholly coast; the interior in comparison is a negligible quantity! and almost as much may be said of alderney. both these islands are exceedingly small--sark being only a trifle more than three miles in length, and about one and three-quarters of a mile in breadth (measuring, not precisely from east to west, but at right angles to the axis); and alderney being about three and a half miles in length, from north-east to south-west, and one and a quarter miles in breadth. alderney is undoubtedly the less beautiful of the two, and is probably by far the least frequently visited of all the different members of the norman archipelago. the voyage from st. peter port, in a very small boat, and made only two or three times in a week, is dreaded, and not without reason, by those for whom rough seas have no welcome. alderney, again, is the least foreign of the channel islands in local colour, though nearest france in situation; and here the old norman patois has been entirely replaced by english. it possesses in its capital, st. anne, a small, old-fashioned country town that is wholly without parallel anywhere else in the islands. the harbour is at braye, a short mile north from the centre of the town; and the visitor, in strong contrast with what happens at sark, is landed in the least romantic corner of the island. of the old church nothing now remains but a picturesque tower, and even this does not seem to be mediæval. the new church was erected from designs by sir gilbert scott, and is, perhaps, the most striking modern building in the channel islands. the interior of alderney, or aurigny, to use the french form- her crew hath seen castile's black fleet, beyond aurigny's isle-is strongly individualized, and rather wild and remote. one feels at once that this little island has a flavour of its own--a state of things no longer felt among the villadom and glass-houses of guernsey. the strength of alderney, however, lies chiefly in its west and south coasts; no one would visit the island except to visit these, or unless one happened to be an enthusiast for the world's neglected and inaccessible spots. i do not know how far the barbarous quarrying that was projected some six or seven years ago on the south side of the island has since been carried out, or how far it has injured the amenities of the coast. anyhow, the two sisters, towards the south-west corner of the island, are hardly to be rivalled in their splintered grandeur, even in jersey or sark. to sark we come at last in our long exploration of the channel islands, and for sark we may well be content to have waited patiently, and to have wandered far. for this, by universal acclamation, is certainly the gem of the whole group. already we have often seen it in the distance--a long, level line of cliff (save where broken by the coupée)--from the north coast of jersey, or from the piers at st. peter port. now, as we approach it more closely, threading the narrow strait between herm and jethou, and doubling the cliffs of little sark, at the south corner of the island, this hitherto unbroken, monotonous wall begins to resolve itself into an infinity of broken cliffs and promontories, isolating and half concealing a thousand fairy-like bays. surely nowhere else is another coast like this--everywhere so irregular in its general trend and outline--everywhere so deeply bitten into by the mordant unrest of the sea. sark, we have said already, is little else than coast; and certainly it is the coast which first arrests and charms us, and the coast which lingers last and most clearly in our memory, when other impressions begin to be obliterated, or vanish altogether in the steady lapse of years. not a yard of this gracious girdle of cliff is monotonous, or repeats itself, or is even grim (as parts of the coast of alderney are grim), or is relatively less interesting, or less beautiful, or dull; everywhere and always it is singularly lovely, and everywhere and always at the same high pitch. there is really very little to be said about sark, except that the whole island is beautiful throughout: there is nothing to be gained by giving a long catalogue of successive promontories, caves, and bays. it was thus that olivia made a schedule of her beauty--"_item_, two lips indifferent red; _item_, two grey eyes, with lids to them; _item_, one neck, one chin, and so forth"--and at the end of the inventory we have no better picture of the real olivia than before she was thus appraised in detail. [illustration: the sister rocks, alderney. this island is generally ignored by visitors to the group, but the quaint little town of st. anne and the fine rocks at the southern end are quite worth seeing.] the history of sark, for so small an island, is unusually interesting, and in some respects instructive. it is set out by miss carey in an interesting chapter, and some of its episodes may be summarized here. sark, like its sister islands, must have been occupied by neolithic man, for the remains of two poor dolmens still exist in the island, and formerly, no doubt, there were very many more. st. magloire, in the sixth century, built a chapel and founded a small monastery in the island, but apparently he found it unpopulated when first he arrived. in the middle of the fourteenth century the island was inhabited by a crew of lawless wreckers, who were a menace to the navigation of the whole manche. the merchants of rye and winchelsea then put their heads together, and agreed to do by subtlety what they could not effect by force. landing on sark with an armed force must well-nigh have been impossible, till helier de carteret cut his tunnel through the rocks, when he colonized the island in the reign of queen elizabeth. the merchants, accordingly, constructed a piece of strategy that may well have been borrowed from the trojan horse, but in that case was certainly invested with much ingenious detail of its own. the story is told by sir walter raleigh in his _history of the world_, though, as miss carey points out, he postdates the incident by some 200 years, and describes it as having occurred to the crew of a flemish ship. "yet by the industry of a gentleman of the _netherlands_ [the island] was in this sort regained. he anchored in the road with one ship, and, pretending the death of his merchant, he besought the _french_ that they might bury their merchant in hallowed ground, and in the chapel of that isle.... whereto (with condition that they should not come ashore with any weapon, not so much as with a knife), the _french_ yielded. then did the _flemings_ put a coffin into their boat, not filled with a dead carcass, but with swords, targets, and harquebuzes. the french received them at their landing, and, searching everyone of them so narrowly as they could not hide a penknife, gave them leave to draw their coffin up the rocks with great difficulty.... the flemings on the land, when they had carried their coffin into the chapel, shut the door to them, and, taking their weapons out of the coffin, set upon the french." the final settlement of sark--which the french call serq--dates only from the reign of queen elizabeth, when helier de carteret established himself on the then deserted island, and planted there forty families, whom he brought from his native jersey. he also built a church, and instituted a presbyterian vicar, cosmé brevint--being himself a presbyterian--who continued to hold office till his death in 1576, being one who spared, or flattered, no one, "great or small, in his reprehensions." it is rightly said that the constitution of sark is still largely feudal in character. the land is parcelled out into the original forty holdings, and some of these are said still to be held by descendants of the original holders. the lord of the island is still the seigneur, though the lordship has passed from the hands of the de carterets--it is said that they were compelled to part with it by reason of their lavish expenditure on the thankless stuart cause. in the so-called "battery" at the back of the manor-house is one of the old guns that were given by elizabeth to helier de carteret. it is inscribed, "don de sa majesté la royne elizabeth, au seigneur de serq, a.d. 1572." of the smaller islands of the norman archipelago only a word or two need be added here. roughly halfway between sark and guernsey, and separated from each other by a narrow passage that is difficult to navigate by reason of its hidden rocks and surging tides, are the small twin islands of jethou and herm. the latter is now occupied by a german prince, the great-grandson of the famous prussian leader, the exact place of whose meeting with wellington after the field of waterloo--whether at belle alliance, or farther along the road towards genappe--has often been made the topic of historical discussion, and is anyhow the subject of a well-known picture. jethou is considerably the smaller of the two, and is principally devoted to the purpose of a rabbit-warren. in herm are some remains of the old chapel of st. tugual, incorporated with the outbuildings of the present manor-house. previous to 1770 herm was inhabited by deer; and mr. bicknell tells us that they "used to take advantage of the tide to swim over to the vale in guernsey to feed, returning on the next tide." certainly it is lucky that there are now no deer in herm, since they would not find much pasture now at vale. jethou and herm belong to guernsey, and once, no doubt, were physically parts of it. as seen from st. peter port, with sark dimly descried on the distant horizon, they still contribute largely to guernsey's most charming seascape. alderney and sark, again, have each their attendant isle. jersey alone, though the biggest of them all, is a planet without a satellite. the islet peculiar to sark is brecqhou, or the ile des marchants, which lies off its west coast, and is separated from it by the narrow gouliot strait, only a few hundred yards wide. though measuring more than seventy acres, and possessed of a small landing-place, it is at present as innocent of human habitation as was sark itself immediately before the coming of helier de carteret. burhou is situated at a considerably greater distance to the north-west of alderney, from which it is separated by the never-resting swinge. this is, perhaps, the least visited among all the lesser islands, as is alderney itself among the major four. index _the principal reference is given first after names_ alderney, 54, 32, 46, 53, 57, 61, 62 architecture, 8 amy, dean, 42 bailiff helier gosselin, 42 bandinel, david, dean, 13-16 bandinel, james, 16 bandinels and carterets, quarrel of, 121 beaumont, 24 blücher, prince, 60 bordeaux harbour, 44 braye, alderney, 54 brecqhou, 61 burhou, 62 cabbage-stalks, giant, 19 carteret, 5, 9 carteret, helier de, 58, 59, 60, 62 carteret, lady, 13, 14 carteret, sir george, 15 carteret, sir philip de, 12, 13, 14 castle cornet, 36, 37, 42 cattle, guernsey, 33 chantrey chapels, 26 charles ii., 22, 23, 24, 39 christina, queen of sweden, 39 civil war, the, 13 "clameur de haro," 7 cloche, james de la, eldest illegitimate son of charles ii., 22 cobo bay, 49 corbet, major moses, 22 corbière point, 25, 27 coupée, the, sark, 56 coutances, 5, 7 creux des fées, 52, 45 creux-du-vis, or devil's hole, 29 creux mahie, 48 cromlechs, see dolmens dolmens, 27, 44, 45, 47, 52, 57 du guesclin, bertrand, 17 elizabeth castle, 24, 13, 26, 36 font at prince's tower, jersey, 19 french language and patois, 6-7 gaultier de la salle, bailiff, 40, 42 gaultier, ranulph, 42 gorey, 10 gouffre, the, 30, 48 gouliot strait, 61 granite quarries, 44 grève de lecq, 28, 29 grouville, 26 grouville, churches of, 20 guernsey, 30-61 guernsey, south coast of, 47 guillemine, gilbert, 42 hauteville house, 39 henrietta maria, queen, 11 heretic-burning in guernsey, 42 herm, 60, 61, 39 hugo, victor, 38, 39, 40 icart bay, 47 icart point, 47 ile de guerdain, 25 ile des marchants, 61 intensive cultivation, 33 "iron mask, man with the," 23 ivy castle, 43, 44 janvrin's tower, 25 jersey, 5-31 jersey churches, 18 jersey, coast of, 28 jersey cows, 33 jethou, 61, 39, 60 kirkby malham, 46 kit's coty house, 45 l'ancresse common, 44 la houle, 30 la moye point, 25, 47, 48 l'erée, 51, 52 le fret point, 25 lihou, 51 louis xiv., 23 lukis museum at st. peter port, 46 mabon, richard, dean of jersey, 18 massey, perotine, 42 millbrook, 24 minquiers, 17 mont orgueil castle, 5, 9-19, 27 mont st. michel, 5, 24, 44, 50, 51 morris, colonel, 13 moulin huet, guernsey, 47 mouriers waterfall, 30 navigation of the jersey seas, 17 noirmont point and bay, 25 norman speech, relics of, 6, 54 old government house hotel, 39 old priaulx library, 39 perelle bay, 49 petit bot bay, 48 pierson, major, 22 pleinmont, 47, 48, 49 pompadour, mme., 39 pontefract castle, 13, 24 portelet bay (guernsey), 48 portelet bay (jersey), 25 primroses in guernsey and sark, 34, 35 prince's tower, jersey, 18, 27, 35 priory of notre dame de la roche, 51 prynne, william, 11, 13, 15 raleigh, sir w., 58 robert, duke of normandy, 44 roche à la fée, 45 rocquaine bay, 49 rozel, jersey, 28, 30 rullecourt, 20, 22 sacrament, refusal of, 14 st. anne, alderney, 54 st. apolline chapel, 49, 50 st. aubin bay, 24 st. aubin's, 24 st. brelade's bay, 25 st. brelade's chapel, 26, 51 st. brelade's hotel, cross at, 27 st. helier, 21, 9, 22, 24, 45 ste. marie du chastel, 21 st. ouen's bay, 17 st. ouen's church, 14 st. ouen's manor, 27 st. peter port, 34, 35, 36, 37, 39, 43, 54, 61 st. peter's church, guernsey, 52 st. sampson's, guernsey, 25, 43 st. tugual, chapel of, herm, 61 saints' bay, 47 sark, 31, 53-60 sark, the creux derrible, 29 sark, the manor house, 60 scott, sir gilbert, 55 serpent legend, a, 18 snakes, absence of, 33 sorel point, 30 star chamber, the, 11 _stella_, loss of the, 18 sunday in jersey, 9 swinge, the, 62 torteval, 40, 48, 49 vale castle, 43, 44 vale church, 44, 46 vazon bay, 49 wall-paintings at st. brelade's, 26 west park, jersey, 24 wordsworth, wm., 6 billing and sons, ltd., printers, guildford. agents =america= the macmillan company 64 & 66 fifth avenue, new york =australasia= oxford university press 205 flinders lane, melbourne =canada= the macmillan company of canada, ltd. st. martin's house, 70 bond street, toronto =india= macmillan & company, ltd. macmillan building, bombay 309 bow bazaar street, calcutta published by adam & charles black soho sq., london the coinages of the channel islands. by lieutenant-colonel b. lowsley, royal engineers (retd.). author of contributions on "the coins and tokens of ceylon" (_numismatic chronicle, vol. xv._); "the xviith century tokens of berkshire" (_williamson's edition of boyne's xviith century tokens_); "berkshire dialect and folk lore, with glossary" (_the publication of the english dialect society_), &c., &c., &c. london: victoria printing works, 118 stanstead road, forest hill, and 15 kirkdale, sydenham. 1897. index. page general observations on coinages for the channel islands 1 the earliest coins of the channel islands 4 roman coins in the channel islands 7 on early imported coins and their values 9 the coats of arms of the channel islands 26 the jersey silver tokens of 1813 28 copper and bronze coinages of jersey from 1841 30 on guernsey coins from the middle ages 33 copper and bronze coinages of guernsey from 1830 37 silver countermarked guernsey crown 38 channel islands copper tokens 39 supplementary notes 40 the coinages of the channel islands. by lieutenant-colonel b. lowsley, (retired) royal engineers. author of contributions on "the coins and tokens of ceylon" (_numismatic chronicle_, _vol. xv._); "the xviith century tokens of berkshire" (williamson's edition of boyne's xviith century tokens); "berkshire dialect and folk lore, with glossary" (the publications of the english dialect society), &c., &c., &c. general observations on coinages for the channel islands. before treating of the channel islands coinages in detail, it may be of interest briefly to notice in order the various changes and the influences which led to these. the earliest inhabitants of the islands of whom anything is known were contemporaneous with the ancient britons of druidical times. jersey and guernsey are still rich in druidical remains. the table-stone of the cromlech at gorey is 160 feet superficial, and the weight, as i have made it, after careful calculation, is about 23-3/4 tons. it rests on six upright stones, weighing, on an average, one ton each. in the very complete work recently edited by e. toulmin nicolle[a] is the following interesting note:-"that traces of the old northmen, which were once obscure, have now become clear and patent; that institutions, long deemed roman, may be scandinavian; that in blood and language there are many more foreign elements than were originally recognized, are the results of much well-applied learning and acumen. but no approximation to the proportion that these foreign elements bear to the remainder has been obtained; neither has the analysis of them gone much beyond the discovery of those which are referred to scandinavia. of the tribes on the mainland, those which in the time of cæsar and in the first four centuries of our era have the best claim to be considered as the remote ancestors of the early occupants of the islanders, are the curiosilites, the rhedones, the osismii, the lemovices, the veneti, and the unelli--all mentioned by cæsar himself, as well as by writers who came after him. a little later appear the names of the abrincatui and the bajucasses. all these are referable to some part of either normandy or brittany, and all seem to have been populations allied to each other in habits and politics. they all belonged to the tract which bore the name of armorica, a word which in the keltic means the same as pomerania in sclavonic--_i.e._, the country along the seaside." [a] "the channel islands." by the late david thomas ansted, m.a., and the late robert gordon latham, m.a. revised and edited by e. toulmin nicolle. published by w. h. allen and co., 13, waterloo place, london. all evidences that can be gathered would tend to prove that before the time of the romans the channel islands were but thinly populated. there are no traces of decayed large towns nor records of pirate strongholds, and the conclusion is that the inhabitants were fishermen, and some living by hunting and crude tillage. the frequent druidical remains show the religion which obtained. any coins in use in those days would be gaulish, of the types then circulated amongst the mainland tribes above named. the writer of the foregoing notes considers that the earliest history of the channel islands is as follows (page 284):-"1. at first the occupants were bretons--few in number--pagan, and probably poor fishermen. "2. under the romans a slight infusion of either roman or legionary blood may have taken place--more in alderney than in jersey--more in jersey than in sark. "3. when the litus saxonicum was established, there may have been thereon lighthouses for the honest sailor, or small piratical holdings for the corsair, as the case might be. there were, however, no emporia or places either rich through the arts of peace, or formidable for the mechanism of war. "4. when the irish church, under the school of st. columbanus, was in its full missionary vigour, irish missionaries preached the gospel to the islanders, and amongst the missionaries and the islanders there may have been a few saxons of the litus. "5. in the sixth century some portion of that mixture of saxons, danes, chattuarii, leti, goths, bretons, and romanized gauls, whom the frank kings drove to the coasts, may have betaken themselves to the islands opposite. "to summarise--the elements of the population nearest the channel islands were:--(1) original keltic; (2) roman; (3) legionary; (4) saxon; (5) gothic; (6) letic; (7) frank; (8) vandal--all earlier than the time of rollo, and most of them german; to which we may add, as a possible element, the alans of brittany. "that the soldiers of the roman garrison were not necessarily roman is suggested by the word "legionary." some of them are particularly stated to have been foreign. there is indeed special mention of the troop of cavalry from dalmatia--"equites dalmatæ." the inference from the above, as regards coins current in the channel islands prior to the norman conquest of england, would clearly be that, subsequent to the circulation of the first uninscribed gaulish coins as imitated from the phillippus types, there followed the well-struck roman issues, which, in course of time, were superseded by the coinages used and introduced by later invaders and settlers. british-struck coins of the saxon kings are rarely found in the channel islands, the coins used at the saxon period of england being doubtless drawn by these islands from normandy and brittany. there have never, so far as is known, been regal or state mints established in the channel islands, with the exception of the strange venture by colonel smyth in the reign of king charles i., which will be fully noted in turn hereafter. "freluques" and "enseignes" also perhaps appear to have been struck in guernsey, and a few copper tokens, as will be described, were introduced by banks and firms. but from the time of the romans until the present century, french and other foreign money has been imported, and formed the recognized currency. the earliest coins of the channel islands as referred to in the preceding general notes, the earliest coins known to have been in use in the channel islands are of the same types as used at the time on the near coast of france. they are styled gaulish, and are generally of the following description:-_o._ sinister head in profile; nose, lips, eyes, and ears expressed by duplicate lines; tracery or ornamentation in front of the face, and profuse rolls of curling hair. _r._ figure of a horse, extravagantly drawn and decorated, and with ornaments or gear of some kind above and below. often the mane of the horse is arranged and curled, as if specially so dressed for parade or show, and almost suggests decorations as still sometimes adopted by american indian or other barbarian chiefs. there are reins, too, in some instances, and these are sometimes held by a rough representation of an arm and hand. the legs of the horse always indicate gallopping. the symbols underneath it are usually either (1) the wild boar, as perhaps indicative of the most important local wild beast in the chase; (2) the chariot wheel, as representing that the horse would draw this vehicle, there not being room to show the whole on the coin fully and in rear of the horse; (3) the implement described by sir john evans[b] as a "lyre-shaped object." it would be most interesting to ascertain what this instrument--which is frequently delineated--may really be. it might be a musical production of the bagpipe character, or a head-dress, or a warlike weapon. an extensive museum or collection of very ancient implements should solve the problem. [b] "the coins of the ancient britons." by sir john evans, k.c.b., f.s.a., f.g.s. published by j. russell smith, 36, soho square, london. as regards the metal of which the coins are made, sir john evans, at page 128 of his work, states as follows:-"these coins are formed of _billon_ or base silver, which appears to vary considerably in the amount of its alloy. from an analysis made by de caylus (donop. médailles gallo gäeliques, page 24) of two coins, their compositions were found to be as follows:- a. b. silver ·0413 ·1770 copper ·8414 ·7954 tin ·1166 ·0265 iron ·0005 ·0009 gold ·0002 ·0002 ----- ----- 1·0000 1·0000 "the weight of the larger pieces ranges from 80 to 105 grains, and that of the smaller coins is about 25 grains." it will be observed from the above analysis how considerably the proportions of the white metals, as silver and tin, vary in these coins, and this variation, as regards metallic composition, is so universal that amongst a large number in the same "find" you will even, on cleaning the coins, see some of them look as if made of silver, and the colour vary, until you reach some that appear hardly better than wholly of copper. it would be very interesting to know where the metal or ore for these coinages was procured from. there must have been a natural mixture of most of the metals. i have looked through a "find" of more than 200 jersey gaulish coins, which are in the possession of r. r. lemprière, esq. they were turned up by the plough on his manor of rozel; and whatever covering had enclosed them had either gone to decay, or become broken up, as they were quite loose. he had cleaned a few of them. even to the eye the metallic composition varied greatly--some being of the colour of silver, and some lowering to that of copper. in this lot there were but two of the smaller size of 25 grains, and i think that proportion may perhaps give some indication as to the relative rarity of the two coins; for at a rough estimate one seems to meet only about one in a hundred, which is of the smaller kind. the larger gaulish coins are common; large "finds" of the types formerly used in the channel islands having been made on the adjacent mainland of normandy and brittany, and also on the south coast of england. sir john evans mentions (page 128) the hoard at mount batten, near plymouth (_numismatic journal_, vol. i., page 224), and that in the _arch. assoc. journal_, vol. iii., page 62, is an account of a find of them at avranches, written by mr. c. roach smith; also in 1820 nearly 1,000 were discovered in jersey; and previously, in 1787, there had been a find in that island. the manor of rozel seems to have been most rich in furnishing specimens. in addition to the number in possession of the seigneur of rozel, as before referred to, there are from that district of the island collections at the st. helier museum, and with lady marett, wm. nicolle, esq., dr. le cronier, e. c. cable, esq., and others. they are often turned up in agricultural work, and many farmers possess a few, but will not part with them, nor with their stone or bronze spear-heads, arrow-heads, axe-heads, and jars, as there is often some superstition that it is unlucky to let these be sold away from the neighbourhood where they were dug up. full descriptions of some "finds" are given in the annual issues of the _société jersiaise_, together with illustrations. the illustrations differ little as regards the types shown from those given in the works of evans and hawkins. there is, however, one point to be observed that is interesting and noteworthy--_i.e._, gaulish and roman coins have been found enclosed together in the same urn, thus indicating that the two coinages had concurrently come into the possession of the same person before being hidden. this appears proof of concurrent circulation. the small urn found by mr. george amy, of rozel, close to the spot where the landslip occurred in 1875, is in the jersey museum. it is, of course, hand-made pottery, and burnt nearly black. it contained both gaulish and roman coins--the former, both of _billon_ and silver, being mainly of the smaller or more rare sort, and each weighing only from 18 to 28 grains. the urn was a small one, the top having been covered by a flat stone, with a larger stone keeping this down in its place. by consideration of the metal values of gaulish and roman coins turned up in the same "find," we might arrive at the relative current values as regulated and assigned at the period. roman coins in the channel islands after conquest and occupation by the romans, the gaulish currency, as well as that of ancient britain, was superseded by roman issues. mr. edward hawkins, in his standard work on the silver coins of england[c] (page 22), tersely and precisely explains what happened in england; and the channel islands came within the same provisions and action. [c] "the silver coins of england." by edward hawkins, f.r.s., f.a.s. published by bernard quaritch, 15, piccadilly, london. "it is natural to suppose that when the roman power had become established in britain, the ordinary money of that empire would form the general circulation of this country, and that british money would be for the most part, if not entirely, superseded. gildas asserts that an edict was actually issued and enforced, ordaining that all money current in this island should bear the image and superscription of the roman emperor; and the circumstance of roman coins being almost daily turned up in every part of the country amply confirms his statement. it is quite unnecessary to enter here into any description of that money, as it is perfectly well known to everyone, and numerous treatises and descriptions of it have been published in all languages." just as stated above, it would be but going over ground already thoroughly well trodden to treat of the different roman coins discovered in the channel islands. they are similar to those which have come to light on the south coast of england and in normandy and brittany. i will, however, append at length the following note from william nicolle, esq., jurat, of bosville, king's cliff, jersey, who has favoured me with particulars of roman coins found in jersey, and now in his possession:-"the roman coins in my possession are 342 in number, and form part of a find which was made in february, 1848, in the district of 'les quenvais,' in the parish of st. brelade's, jersey. they were described in a paper which was contributed to the worcester congress in the summer of 1848, by the late mr. f. c. lukis, f.s.a., the eminent guernsey archæologist, and which was published in the 'journal of the archæological association,' vol. iv., page 272. "mr. lukis says:--'by a series of sections the accumulation of sand in les quenvais bears marks of several inundations, quite distinct in their appearance, and varying somewhat in their directions. the soil and clay beneath this sandy mass exhibit roman vestiges of pottery and other articles, so that we cannot be far wrong in attributing the change in this supposed fertile district to a period not far removed from the roman subjugation of western europe. fragments of roman pottery from beneath the sandy hillocks of les quenvais, in the possession of col. le couteur, of jersey, aide-de-camp to her majesty, present indubitable marks of the possession of this district by those conquerors. and, as if a further proof were wanting, in february last a jar[d] of coarse earthenware, which contained 400 brass coins in excellent state of preservation, was dug out from the substratum, where it may have been lodged at the time of the roman occupation of jersey.' [d] this jar is in my possession. "mr. lukis then proceeds to describe at length the different varieties of coins in this find under the respective emperors, though his details are not always correct. "of the 342 brass coins in my possession 208 are coins of constantine the great, or his son, 86 of licinius, 16 of maximinus, 14 of maxentius, 11 of maximianus, and 7 of constantius chlorus. "two emperors had the common name of maximianus. the elder reigned from 286 to 310, and the younger from 305 to 311. of the 11 coins of these emperors, there are 7 of the elder and 4 of the younger. the first bear on the obverse the legend _d. n. maximiano p. f. s. aug._, and the second the words _imp. c. val. maximianus p. f. aug._ "constantius i., or constantius chlorus, reigned one year, from the first of may, 305, to july 25th, 306, when he died at eboracum, now york. during the whole of this period he remained in gaul and britain. the 7 coins of this emperor are all of the same mintage. an exact _facsimile_ of them is given on page 262 of stevenson's 'dictionary of roman coins,' with the slight difference that in the exergue the letters are p. l. n. instead of p. t. r. "constantine the great reigned from 306 to 337. he was the son of constantius chlorus, and was with him at eboracum at the time of his death, and there assumed the purple. his son, constantius ii., or junior, was named cæsar by his father in 317, and died in 340. there is no proper criterion by which to distinguish the coins of these two emperors. of the 208 coins of constantine in my collection there are about 30 varieties. "maximinus ii. reigned from 305 to 313; maxentius from 306 to 312; and licinius from 307 to 324. "it is probable that all, or almost all, the 342 coins of this collection were minted during the first quarter of the 4th century--in fact, during the ten years between a.d. 305 and 315." on early imported coins and their values. in preceding "general observations on coinages for the channel islands," i have noted that from the time of the romans the currency continued to be by _introduced_ or _foreign_ coins. naturally enough, the islanders would have only to do with coins which would be accepted by those on the neighbouring mainland with whom they had commercial transactions. there was not sufficient interior traffic to make requisite any local coinage of their own. it would be uninteresting and of no practical utility to treat in detail of coins thus imported for temporary and outside, as well as home, convenience and necessity, but i will now give notes and extracts which will, i believe, clearly indicate the nature of currency arrangements which obtained from the days of the early kings of england. i am indebted to le quesne's "history of jersey"[e] for interesting information recorded of the coinages and currency of that island, and to the rev. g. e. lee for the guernsey records. the original states documents from which these particulars were collated are still preserved. the denominations of coins officially in use at various periods appear thereby. [e] "a constitutional history of jersey." by charles le quesne. published by longmans and co., london, 1856. "an order of king john, dated 25th march, 1208, directs the exchequer to reckon to the bailiffs of southampton _twenty sols_ which they paid for a ship in which stephen de oxford sailed to guernsey and jersey by order of the king."--_le quesne_, page 476. "orders from the english crown in the early part of the 13th century specified coins as follows for payment in jersey:--an order from king john of the 11th of november, 1212, directed that the treasury should pay to philip d'albigny, going to the island of jersey, of which hasculfus de soligny was governor, 40 marks for fortifying the island."--_le quesne_, page 476. "in the 8th year of the reign of king henry iii., 1224, there was an order on the treasury to deliver to the governor of jersey, galpidus de lucy, _400 livres_ for the payment of eight knights, each knight to receive _two solidos_ per diem; for the pay of thirty-five cavalry soldiers, each to receive _twelve deniers_ per diem; and for the pay of sixty foot soldiers, each to receive _seven deniers_ per diem."--_le quesne_, page 476. there were also similar grants in the two following years. "the only direct tax which the dukes of normandy had the right to levy was called moneyage, or fouage, or hearth money. from the _extent_ of the royal revenue in jersey, prepared by commissioners in the year 1331, this tax was also due to the crown in jersey. it was to be levied every three years, and consisted of _12 deniers_, or _one sol_, for every hearth in the duchy."--_le quesne_, page 79. "there is a valuable _extent_ of the royal revenues in jersey drawn up in the year 1331 by robert de norton and william de la rue, commissioners specially appointed for the purpose. in this _extent_ we find that william de barentin held the manor and fief of rozel by homage; that this fief _owed sixty sols one denier_ relief; and that whenever the king of england paid a visit to this island, the seigneur of this fief was bound to meet his sovereign on horseback in the sea, to the depth of the girths of the saddle; and during the residence of the king in jersey he was to be his butler, and to enjoy the known emoluments of that office. the seigneur de rozel, as also all the other seigneurs holding _in capite_, owed suite de cour at the chief pleas of the royal court, as they do still to this day. for the fief de meleches and other fiefs, held by geffray de carteret, there was due annually, by the seigneur to the crown, the sum of _forty livres one sol_. the fief de meleches reverted to the crown as an escheat from thomas pinel, in the time of king john, and was granted by edward iii. to renault de cartaret, father of the then holder. the fief and manor of st. ouen was held by renault de carteret by homage; and the relief, when due, was _nine livres_. the seigneur of this fief was bound to serve the king, in time of war, at gouray castle, at his own expense, for the term of two parts of forty days, and had to provide horses and armour. the wardship of this fief and manor, during the minority of the seigneur, was in the crown. the manor and fief of saumarez was held by homage by william de st. hillaire, and owed, as relief, the sum of _ten livres_. the seigneur of the fief des augrès was in the hands of william bras de fer; and he had to meet the king, when he arrived in jersey, on horseback, to the girths of his saddle, in the sea; and the fief owed, as relief, the sum of _seven livres_. besides the services due by the fiefs de haubert, we find that a great number of persons owed stated sums annually to the crown for the lands held by them. the names of the persons are mentioned, together with the quantity of land, for which a fixed annual sum was due. for instance, several persons owed for a _bovata_ of land the sum of _eight sols_ annually. this was the usual amount; but we find that in some cases the charge was _six sols_, _seven sols_, _nine sols_, _ten sols_, and in a few cases as low as _three sols_. the _bovata terræ_ is the same as an oxgauge or an oxgate of land, or as much as an ox can till; but being a compound word, it may contain meadow, pasture, and wood necessary for such tillage. "raulin le françois owed for forty-two acres of land--twelve in trinity parish, and thirty in that of st. laurens--an annual dinner to the king at michaelmas, which was, however, partaken by the bailli, the vicomte, and the clerk of the king. this dinner could be commuted for the payment of _twelve deniers_, which does not raise any extravagant notions of the style of living in those days. the abbot of st. saviour's, however, for the priory of bonnenuit, owed to the king annually an apparently better dinner, for it was estimated at _eleven sols_. there were also due to the crown, as there are still to this day, by various persons, a quantity of geese, fowls, eggs, and chickens. the tenants of the crown had various personal services to perform, such as carting the wine, hay, and wood belonging to the king, and keeping the royal mills in repair. the right of wardship, usually considered as incidental to feudal tenures, does not appear to have obtained in jersey, except in the case of st. ouen's manor. the right of marriage, or maritagium, which was accompanied in some cases with considerable hardships, does not appear to have prevailed or to have been exercised in this island. this claim, when admitted, was often the source of large fines paid by individuals to the crown, and of much vexation and tyranny."--_le quesne_, page 82. "in a grant of sir richard harliston, dated 15th september, 1479, there is mention of both corn and money rents--the former to the amount of 8 qrs., 7 cabots, 2 sexrs., and the latter to _12 groats, 13 sous, 6 deniers_. the grant was for services rendered during the siege for the recovery of mount orgueil castle."--_le quesne_, page 125. "on the 26th of january, 1534, the value of the current coinage was regulated, and the same thing took place about this time as regards coins in guernsey."--_le quesne_, page 191. "on the 20th february, 1561, the price of cider in jersey was fixed at _one esterlin_ the _pot_; and the brewers were ordered to make beer (servoise) for the use of the sick, the price of which was to be fixed by the constables and principal parishioners."--_le quesne_, page 192. in the reign of king james i., under date the 20th july, 1607, a commission was appointed, under presidency of sir robert gardiner, knight, for the determination of differences in jersey; _it also had scope as regards guernsey_. "the first article of complaint by the governor was relative to the value of the french coins. at these times there was very little, if any, english coin in circulation, and there was, strictly speaking, no fixed standard of value in jersey. the _livre tournois_ could scarcely be called a standard of value, and yet it was that by which the market price of commodities was known. it was the ideal currency of the island, that in which accounts were kept. the actual current money was french; and any variation in its value compared to the livre tournois would have, of course, to be regulated in jersey. "any change in the value or denomination of coins is attended with serious inconveniences, and it may, in some cases, be highly injurious to a large class of the community. this is more likely to be the case when the coins of two countries are adopted; when two different currencies are in circulation; when any variation in the value of the coins of one of these countries takes place, and the relative value, owing to that change, has to be ascertained and determined by a legislative or administrative body. great caution is required in these matters; and, at a later period, the greatest discontent was caused in jersey, and even a riot ensued, from an alteration in the value of the currency. "the states of jersey, a few years before the arrival of the commissioners, perceiving that the king of france had altered and advanced his several coins, established what they considered an equivalent value between these coins and the moneys in jersey after the old rates. the difference was about seven per cent. the _french crown_ was advanced to _four sous_ more, the _guardesen_ from _fifteen sous_ to _sixteen sous_, the _teston_ from _fourteen sous and a half_ to _fifteen sous and a half_, and the _franc_ from _twenty sous_ to _twenty-one sous four deniers tournois_. the only money in circulation was french; and the governor claimed the payments due to the crown in moneys at the old rate. the commissioners were of a different opinion; they said that it would be no prejudice to his majesty or to the governor if the moneys were received after the new advancements or alteration; and besides, it would be a great contentment to the people of the island to pay the same after the rate or value at which they had received it; but as the commissioners considered that it was a prerogative of the crown to diminish, alter, or advance any moneys current among his own subjects, they ordered that the relative value of the moneys should continue as regulated by the states, 'until his majesty's pleasure be known what other course and order in times to come shall be held and kept therein.' this decision of the commissioners was confirmed by the lords; but it is added in the order, 'that in time to come, because it is a prerogative of his majesty, and only appertaineth to royal right, to diminish, alter, or advance any moneys current among his subjects, we require that this be not until his majesty's express consent be thereunto first had and obtained.'"--_le quesne_, page 225. the following two interesting extracts are from "charles the second in the channel islands," by s. elliott hoskins.[f] [f] "charles the second in the channel islands," by s. elliott hoskins, m.d., f.r.s. published by richard bentley, london. "the prince of wales, driven out of england without resources, having nevertheless, at his own cost, to maintain soldiers and sailors; to provide for a host of needy followers; to build fortifications for his protection; and to defray the travelling expenses of the numerous messengers going and coming from all parts, was reduced to great straits at this period. jersey could supply him but inadequately, and from france he could obtain but slender and uncertain assistance. in order, therefore, to improve the state of his finances, and in some measure to provide for current expenses, it was resolved, at the recommendation of the council, that an establishment for coining bullion should at once be set up.[g] a house was accordingly hired in trinity parish, jersey, from one michael le guerdain, which was speedily fitted up with furnaces for fusing the precious metals, and with presses and dies for striking and stamping coin, under the direction and superintendence of one colonel smith, who was appointed master of the mint. [g] note 1.--"in the year 1684 charles the second is said to have issued tin coinage; had he made it a legal tender in 1646, when it was plentiful and precious as an article of barter, the speculation might have proved profitable." "chevalier goes on to state that the money herein coined consisted chiefly of pieces resembling english half-crowns, which passed current at thirty sous each. the obverse of these pieces, called st. georges, was stamped with an effigy of the king on horseback holding a drawn sword in his hand; and the reverse impressed with roses and harps, proper to the royal arms, interlaced with fillets, crosses, and other devices. some shillings were likewise coined, and besides these a small number of jacobuses, said to be worth twenty shillings apiece."--_hoskins_, vol. i., page 416. "our journalist reverts to the subject of the mint set up in jersey some twelvemonths before, which at that time promised to become a profitable financial speculation. the manager, colonel smyth, he informs us, originally a landed proprietor, and a man of good family in england, had been, before the troubles, master of one of his majesty's provincial mints, and by virtue of his office an honorary privy councillor. on the breaking out of the civil war he commanded a regiment in the king's service, but, at its termination, fled with hundreds of others into france, from whence he came to jersey, with his wife and a large train of domestics, during the prince of wales's sojourn in that island. being desirous of exercising his former profession, and, moreover, provided with dies and other coining implements, he succeeded in establishing a mint under his royal highness's sanction and the countenance of the governor, but not, as we shall see, under the patronage of the chancellor of the exchequer. "in a few months the concern turned out to be an utter failure--partly owing to mismanagement, partly to an alleged scarcity of bullion. smyth, a person of expensive habits, who kept up an extravagant private establishment, becoming deeply involved, was forced to dispose not only of his household goods, but of the greater part of his machinery, reserving merely the dies he had brought over with him. towards the end of may he again sought refuge in france, intending, as he said, to send his wife into england to compound for his sequestered estates. "chevalier, although he admits that colonel smyth, 'étant à jersey, fit de la monnoie de quoi je ne dis rien,' is a firm believer in the actual existence of a mint from whence were issued coins of gold and silver of legal tender. misled by his assertions--on all other subjects rigidly accurate--we confidently bestowed considerable time and industry in seeking to obtain specimens of the st. georges, jacobuses, half-crowns, and shillings, so minutely described, and alleged to have been struck in jersey. the perusal, however, of the subjoined letter dissipated the illusion--proved that the mint was a mississippi scheme, a south sea bubble on a small scale, and that the master thereof was little better than a swindling adventurer--thus accounting for the non-existence of the coinage in any numismatic collection:-"sir edward hyde to sir edward nicholas. "i will tell you a tale, of which it may be you may know somewhat; if you do not, take no notice of it from me. when we were in cornwall, colonel smyth (who was sir alexander denton's son-in-law, and taken in that house), having obtained his liberty by j. ashburnham's friendship upon such an exchange (one of the councillors of ireland) as would have redeemed the best man, came to us from the king at hereford. to me he brought a short perfunctory letter from my lord digby, but from j. a. to my lord culpeper his dispatch was of weight; his business, to erect a mint at truro, which should yield the king a vast profit; mr. browne, j. a.'s man (who was long a prisoner with him) (_sic_); the king's dues, by a special warrant (which i saw), to be paid to mr. ashburnham. "what he did in cornwall i know not, for you perceive he was to have no relation or reference to me, which, if you had been chancellor of the exchequer, you would have taken unkindly. shortly after the prince came hither he came to us, having left cornwall a fortnight before we did. you may imagine my lord culpeper was forward to help him, and how he promised to set up his mint, and assured us that he had contracted with merchants at st. malloe to bring in such a quantity of bullion as would make the revenue very considerable to the prince. we wondered why the merchants of st. malloe should desire to have english money coined. he gave us an answer that appeared very reasonable: that all the trade they drove with the west country for tin, fish, or wool, was driven with money; and therefore they sent over their pistoles and pieces-of-eight, in which they sustained so great a loss that their merchants had rather have this bullion coined into english money at 20 in the hundred than take the other way. "after several debates, in which (though there seemed no convincing argument to expect great profit from it) there was not the least suggestion of inconvenience, he pretending that he had all officers ready at st. malloe, and such as belonged to the king's mint, and likewise his commission under the great seal (for he produced only the warrant under the sign-manual), the prince writ a letter to the governor, bailiff, and jurats to give him countenance, and to assign him some convenient place to reside in. shortly after the prince went away, the colonel proceeds, brings his wife hither (who in truth is a sober woman) and takes a little house remote from neighbours, but pretended that the prince's remove and other accidents had hindered the advance of the service, but that he hoped hereafter to proceed in it. here he lived soberly and reservedly; and after two or three months here was found much adulterated money--half-crown pieces which had been put off by people belonging to him. one only officer he hath, an old catholic, one vaughan, who is a good graver. "the governor (who is strangely civil to all men, but immoderately so to such gentlemen as have seemed to serve the king in this quarrel) was much perplexed, the civil magistrates here taking notice of it (the base money), and sent to him to speak with him; told him that he believed his education had not been to such artifices, and that he might be easily deceived by the man he trusted, who was not of credit enough to brave the burthen of such a trust; that if this island fell into suspicion of such craft, their trade would be undone; and therefore (having showed him some pieces of money) desired him by no means to proceed in that design, till satisfaction might be given by the view of such officers who were responsible for it. the colonel denied some of the pieces to be of his coining, but confessed others, and said it was by mistake too light; but i had forgot to tell you that he had assured me, two or three days before, that he had yet coined none. "to conclude (though much troubled), he promised the governor not to proceed further in it. then he came to me, and told me a long and untoward discourse of a great trust between the king, mr. ashburnham and himself, and one more, which he would not name, but led me to believe it was mr. a.'s friend at paris, and that the design was originally to coin dollars, by which he could gain a vast advantage to the king. he found me not so civil as he expected, and therefore easily withdrew, and the same day attempted the governor, and offered him a strong weekly bribe (enough to keep you and me and both our families very gallantly) to join with him and assist him. his reception was not much better there, so that he has since procured a good stout letter from the prince to command the governor, bailiff, and jurats to give him all countenance, and to advance the service. this will put an end to it, for the governor will deal freely with the prince, though upon the confidence we have still naughty new money. the reason of the governor's exceeding tenderness is his duty to the king, to whom such a communion (which indeed is a strange one) would draw much dishonour. tell me if you know anything of this, and whether you think your friend so wise, and careful of his master's honour as he should be; beyond this say nothing of it, except to my lord hopton, who can tell you how scurvy a thing it is. "edw. hyde. "jersey, february 24th, 1647. "there is some discrepancy between this account of the affair and chevalier's; not so much, however, considering that one writer was before, while the other was behind the scenes. the two narratives combined complete the history of the jersey mint--a history evidently discreditable to certain personages, and therefore never intended to meet the public eye. even the unsophisticated chronicler is intuitively aware that some mystery attaches to the transaction, which prevents him from writing with his usual unreserve."--_hoskins_, vol. ii., page 138. "in 1646, men of the jersey militia each received _5 sols_ per diem on field days."--_le quesne_, page 486. "a great improvement was effected in the organisation of the militia by sir thomas morgan. he divided the militia into regiments, and remodelled the artillery. on his proposition, in order to compel the men to attend with regularity to their military duties, so essential for the preservation of the island, the states, on the 25th september, 1666, ordered that fines should be levied by the vingteniers for all defaults in the following proportions:- a commissioned officer _sixty sols_. a cavalry soldier _thirty sols_. a private soldier, with musket (mousquetaire) _twelve sols_. a private soldier, with halbert or staff (halbarde ou baston) _eight sols_." --_le quesne_, page 489. "it is an indication of the little traffic of the island that payments were usually made in _liards_--small copper coins of the value of one-eighth of a penny. there are acts of the states passed at different periods alluding to the scarcity of money. according to the prevalent notions of those times, and of a much later period, one chief object of commercial legislation was to keep as much money or actual coin in the country as possible; and the balance of trade was to be so regulated as to insure this result. the exportation of coin has therefore, in various countries, been occasionally prohibited under severe penalties. the same notions existed in jersey, and it was equally believed that coin or money could be retained, and should be retained, by legislative enactments. we find an act of the states, of the 3rd of october, 1701, forbidding all persons to take or send out of the island to foreign countries any gold, silver, or other coin, to a larger amount than _thirty livres tournois_ at a time, on pain of confiscation of the money, besides a fine; and, in addition to this penalty, confiscation of the vessel on board of which such moneys should be found, and three months' imprisonment of the master and crew. this prohibition did not produce the results anticipated by the states; for we find them, on the 9th of april, 1720, complaining that, although the sending out of the island of gold and silver was forbidden, yet very little remained in the island. they could not understand that if a profit or benefit was to be derived in the purchase of commodities or provisions in france with actual money, such money would unavoidably find its way there. coins, being in fact merchandise, will follow the same rules of exchange, and will be attracted to those parts where they bear a greater exchangeable or market value. the actual value of a coin in currency must be that of its intrinsic value; and if temporary circumstances cause it to bear a greater value elsewhere, thither it will tend, till the balance is restored, in defiance of any attempts to arrest its progress. "the ill-success of the states, in their prohibition of the exportation of gold and silver coin, did not lead them to perceive the futility of the measure; but they were fearful that the copper money, the _sous_ and the _liards_, would follow their betters, particularly as sous and liards had risen in value in france, and that thus the island would be deprived of all metallic circulation. they therefore, on the 9th of april, 1720, prohibited the carrying out of the island of _liards_ and _sous_ to a larger amount than five livres tournois for each person, under the penalty of confiscation; and all persons were authorised to seize the moneys thus exported, and to require the assistance, if necessary, of the constables and centeniers in the searching of the vessels; while the master and crews on board of which such sums should be found, if cognizant of the fact, were to be liable to a fine and an imprisonment of three months. "by an act of the states of the 3rd of may, 1720, it appears that there was no longer any gold or silver in circulation: it had disappeared, having been sent out of the island; and the only metallic currency remaining was that of _liards_, which it was probable would also disappear. the states, in consequence, found it impossible to repay the sums which had been generously lent, without interest, by individuals, for the works at the harbour; and in order to obtain a supply which was to enable them to pay their debts, and to avoid the loss accruing from the variable market value of the coins, they resolved on the adoption of a plan which could only increase the evil, and perpetuate the banishment of gold and silver coin. the states evidently confused the want of funds with the want of metallic money; for had they possessed the former, the latter would have been forthcoming. an easy mode of creating money, according to them, which was to enable them to pay their debts, without any detriment or cost to anybody (sans qu'il n'en coûte rien à personne), and to build the harbour without any expense to the island, was by the issue of a paper currency, from the circulation of which the public were to derive much benefit, and which, besides, would not be liable to fluctuation in value. they seemed not to be aware that a paper currency must be based on a metallic one; that it must represent, and be exchangeable for, a metallic currency, and therefore must follow the fluctuations of the latter in value; since, if not exchangeable, at the option of the bearer, for metallic value, it at once becomes depreciated, and drives from circulation the metallic currency by which it is designated. the lower the value of the notes, or paper currency, the greater will become the scarcity of the coin. such would naturally be the result of the enactment of the states, for they decided on issuing notes of a very low value. for instance, there were to be 2,000 notes each of twenty sous. 1,000 " " " thirty sous. 1,000 " " " sixty sous. 1,000 " " " one hundred sous. 750 " " " ten livres. 500 " " " twenty livres. 300 " " " thirty livres. 240 " " " fifty livres. the aggregate amount of these notes was fifty thousand livres. "the scarcity of gold and silver continued; and the states, on the 21st of december, 1725, declared that the only metallic currency in circulation was liards or deniers. they had on previous occasions prohibited the exportation of this copper money; they now forbade its importation, under pain of confiscation. in the following year, perceiving no doubt the futility of their enactments, they allowed, by their act dated the 19th of september, 1726, a free trade in liards--the free importation and exportation of this coin. on the same day they appointed a committee from their body to prepare a representation to his majesty in council, on the subject of the relative value of the coins in circulation in the island. this representation was adopted by the states on the 25th of november, 1726. the ulterior sanction by council of the recommendation of the states was the occasion of serious commotions and discontent in the island. the avowed object of the states in their request to the crown was to prevent the exportation of gold and silver coin from the island, and to encourage the exportation of liards to france, which they asserted passed in jersey above their intrinsic value, and with which they were very much burdened--reasons among the very worst which could be given, or upon which a legislative enactment could be based. "an order in council, dated the 22nd of may, 1729, was issued, approving of the proposed alterations in the currency by the states; and it was accordingly ordered:-"that the french silver coins be current in the said island only according to their intrinsic value, in proportion to the british crown-piece. "that the british crown-piece do continue at seventy-one sols; the half-crown at thirty-five sols and a half; the shilling at fourteen sols; and the sixpence at seven sols. "that the french liards be reduced to their old value of two deniers each; and that the british half-pence be current for seven deniers; and the farthing for three and a half. and his majesty doth hereby further order that the said coins do pass in all manner of payments, according to the said rates; but that this order shall not take effect till the expiration of six calendar months from the date thereof; and to the end that no person may pretend ignorance hereof, the bailiff and jurats of his majesty's said island of jersey are to cause this order to be forthwith published, and to take care that it be executed according to the tenor thereof." the act of the states and the order in council were, to say the least of them, highly injudicious. the only coin apparently in circulation was the _liard_, and the accounts were kept in _livres_ and _sous_. the proportion between the sol and the livre remained unchanged; but it followed, from the new law, that if a person did not meet his liabilities within the specified time of six months, his debts were consequently increased fifty per cent. if he had to pay them in liards; and he could pay them apparently in no other coin. the value of the _sol_ relative to the _liard_ was raised fifty per cent.; that is, six liards were to be estimated as equivalent to one sol, instead of four liards as heretofore. now, on what grounds could the states establish this great difference, when it did not exist in reality? we ascertain positively by an act of the states of the 21st of december, 1725, that the real exchangeable difference between the liards, at their estimated value of four to a sol, and gold and silver coin, was only twelve per cent. in favour of the latter. the rate of exchange between countries is not dependent on or regulated by any legislative authority, however despotic or absolute it may be, but is regulated by the real intrinsic relative value of the coins in circulation in the two countries; and hence the rate of exchange, compared with the par of exchange, will show the depreciation sustained by the circulating medium of a country; for the difference between the par and the rate of exchange should in ordinary circumstances not exceed the cost of transmission of the precious metals from one country to the other. now, by an act of the states of the 21st of december, 1725, we learn that they were indebted to a merchant at st. malo for the proceeds of the sale of a cargo of wheat, which had been taken possession of and sold to the people by the states, at a time of great scarcity in the island. they had remitted a portion of the amount; but there remained a balance due of 3,332 livres tournois, which mr. patriarche had engaged to remit to st. malo. the states ordered that this amount should be paid to mr. patriarche by the deputy viscount in liards, thus incidentally proving that there was in reality no other coin in circulation; but as mr. patriarche had to pay the amount to the merchant at st. malo in gold and silver, and as these bore a premium compared to liards, the loss, or rather the amount of the premium, had of course to be made good by the states; and they accordingly ordered that that difference, amounting to 416 livres ten sous, should be raised by rate on the parishes, and placed in the hands of the deputy viscount, for payment to mr. patriarche. we are thus enabled satisfactorily to ascertain the real comparative difference between the value of the liard and other metallic currency, or, in other words, the premium which the latter bore compared with the copper currency, at the rate of four liards to the sol. by a calculation on the data thus furnished, we find the difference to be precisely twelve per cent. in favour of gold and silver; and we are also to bear in mind that the great scarcity of gold and silver would of course add to the premium. by the order in council the difference was to be established at fifty per cent. "the states soon perceived that they had either committed a great mistake or that they must yield to public opinion, which was strongly and decidedly opposed to the change ordered. they accordingly, on the 20th of december, 1729, petitioned his majesty in council for the recall of the order in council, being apprehensive that the said regulations would not answer the ends they at first expected from them. the states, on the 24th of april, 1730, named a deputy in support of their petition. counsel were heard by the committee of the privy council for the states, and also for several members of the states and others who opposed the petition of the states; but the opinion of the committee was, that the order in council regulating the currency ought not to be suspended or revoked, but carried into execution. his majesty in council, therefore, on the 9th of july, 1730, ordered that the said order in council of the 22nd of may, 1729, be carried into execution: but that during the term of six months from the date hereof all creditors in the said island do receive their debts, if tendered to them at the rate at which the coins went current immediately before making the aforesaid order in council; and, in case of refusal, that such creditors do forfeit one-third of their debts to the benefit of the debtors." in 1774, in france, from whence the small change for the channel islands was being obtained, the _sou_ was equivalent to twelve deniers, the _double-liard_ or _half-sou_ to six deniers, and the _liard_ or _quarter-sou_ to three deniers. "established custom, and the relative value of coins, proved of greater force than the orders in council. livres, and sous, and liards tournois continued, in fact, the currency of the island at their old rate; and many of the native inhabitants of the island still keep their accounts, or make their reckonings, in the livre tournois--the livre being estimated at twenty sous, and the sou at four liards or twelve deniers. when the english currency was, in the year 1835, adopted as the legal currency of the island, it was done by declaring the relative value which it bore in circulation to the livre tournois. this was to meet the objections which were raised to the adoption of the english standard with regard to wheat rents, and other mortgages, which were estimated in the old currency tournois. twenty-six livres tournois, or old french currency, were declared to be equivalent to one pound sterling, which was, and is now, the current rate. "allusion is still made in some legal and official documents to order-money or, as it is called, argent d'ordre, or argent selon l'ordre du roi. but the question may reasonably be asked, 'what is order-money? what is the standard of order-money? does order-money really exist, or has it ever existed?' the livre of order-money is considered worth fifty per cent. more than the livre-tournois; and the distinction is supposed to be derived from the order in council of the year 1729. but that order in council did not establish that difference: it did not change the relative value of the sou and the livre. there was, in fact, no such thing as order-money, except for liards, and thus it did not apply to sous or livres. the value of the liard, as compared to the sou, was, it is true, changed and regulated; but the relative value of the sol, compared with the livre, could not be changed or affected thereby; it remained the same as before. there were twenty sous to the livre: the coin, the sou in circulation, was not enlarged, or made of more intrinsic value. such as it was before, such it remained still. there was no other sou or livre known or acknowledged in use than the tournois; and the order in council did not substitute any other. the order in council could not, with any degree of fairness or justice, be supposed to affect those persons who paid their accounts in sous or livres, or in gold or silver, and not in liards. this was not, however, the view taken of the order; and hence the indignation felt; for the interpretation given, and the claim of fifty per cent. more than was in fact due, bore the semblance of great injustice. "the present value in circulation in jersey of english silver coin will illustrate my meaning. the shilling passes current for twenty-six sous, or thirteen pence of old jersey currency; but the value of the shilling is not intrinsically or really changed--whether it is called twelve pence british or thirteen pence jersey. in either case, a shilling remains a shilling, a pound sterling a pound sterling, worth twenty of the shillings, whether called twelve pence or thirteen pence. the intrinsic value of the coin, of the shilling, is precisely the same; and its relative value to the sovereign is not in the slightest degree modified. the only mode of changing the value of a coin is by an addition of the metal of which it is composed, or by deterioration. if a coin contains the same quantity of metal of the same standard, it does not vary in intrinsic value, whatever may be the denomination given to it, or whatever may be the depreciation of a coin of less value. for the same reason, whether the sou was called six liards or four liards, twelve deniers or eight deniers, that made no difference whatever in the real intrinsic value of the sou or the livre. persons could not in justice be compelled to pay their accounts in liards, when the amount was stated in livres or sous; and hence to oblige them to pay fifty per cent. more than the amount due, when the amount offered was gold or silver, livres or sous, was egregiously unjust."--_le quesne_, page 421. the coats of arms of the channel islands. since the coats of arms for the islands of guernsey and jersey appear on the coins minted for these islands in england in the nineteenth century, the following notes may be of interest:-in 1279 king edward i. granted a public seal, with arms (as for england), to the islands of jersey and guernsey. the arms for guernsey now differ only from those of jersey in being surmounted by a sprig of laurel, or another plant. it is not, however, stated why or when this sprig was conferred. the arms read- _gu_--three lions or leopards passant gardant--_or_. from the impressions of the bailiewick seals, at different periods, it appears that slight differences occur. the inscription on the seal for jersey runs--"s. ballivic insule de jerseye." alderney and sark, being dependencies of guernsey, have on legal or authoritative documents either the seal as granted for that island or else local seals, as will be specified. the rev. g. e. lee, rector of st. peter's, port guernsey, communicates the following interesting and very full note on the above-named matter:-"edward i., in the 7th year of his reign, november 15th, 1279, granted a seal for the use of both bailiewicks. the seal used in both islands was the same in all respects, except that one had, as legend, _s. ballivic insule de gerseye_, and the other, _s. ballivic insule de gernseye_. both seals are appended to a document formerly belonging to the abbey of mont st. michel. the seals bore the three lions of england crowned, _and were both surmounted by a branch_, of which more below. the document is of the year 1315. the guernsey side has the counterseal of macey de la court bailiff. the jersey counterseal has no name, but bears three lions passant, with some sort of bird as a crest. the bailiff of guernsey still uses a _facsimile_ of the original seal. in jersey the seal has been modernized, and the surmounting branch omitted, perhaps by the carelessness of the engraver. the said branch is usually styled a laurel branch, but why i know not. it has stiff sprays, and i am convinced was intended for the _plantagenista_, the well-known badge used by king edward i." it cannot, however, but be observed that if the sprig be intended to represent the slight, insignificant foliage of the plantagenista [called "broom" in the south of england], the design is very unlike and misleading. as regards the official seals used locally for alderney and sark, under date, alderney, 22nd february, 1895, the procureur of alderney informs me:-"the guernsey seal is not ours, nor is it ever used by us. a _facsimile_ of our seal and coat of arms is enclosed, but i know not when granted, nor by whom." this seal is a lion rampant, with a sprig in right paw, and above the legend juge d'auregny. the heraldic tinctures are not indicated on the seal. with reference to the seal used locally for sark, w. f. collings, esquire, informs me, under date, sark, 8th march, 1895:-"the seal of the seigneurs was authorized to be used by act of the royal court, guernsey, bearing date the 12th day of august, 1661, by virtue of a clause in letters patent of james i.--of date, august 12th, 1611. the seal was lost in the wreck of the steamer _gosforth_, november 26th, 1872." the rev. g. e. lee supplements the above as follows:-"i find that the alderney seal was granted by the lords of the privy council, on may 23rd, 1745. it bears the legend _sigillum curiæ insulæ origny, 1745_. "origny is an older form than auregny; the mediæval latin was _alrenorium_. "the seal you have got with _juge d'auregny_ is not the official seal i have described, but an adaptation of it doubtless. "i can gather no record of any minting having ever taken place in guernsey. there is, however, an estate in the parish of st. andrew called _la monnoye_ or _monnaie_, which _may_ mean 'the mint.'" the extract furnished by mr. le brun, vicar of alderney, with the impression of the seal of that island, is:-"sceau ou _cachet accordé_ à la cour, 1745, mai 23e. les seigneurs du conseil privé de sa majesté, par leur ordre ou conseil de ce jour authorisent (_sic_) la cour d'auregny d'avoir un cachet pour certifier tous et tels ecrits qui leur pourront être présentés pour y opposer le sceau." under date 27th march, 1895, the rev. g. e. lee supplements his previous information:-"i have seen sir edgar macculloch, and he agrees with me that the alderney seal is a creation. i have now seen two documents of sark. the first, of 1818, is sealed with a large seal, two inches in diameter, in green wax, bearing the de carteret arms and supporters. the seal is called "le sceau de la seigneurie de l'île de serk." on the reverse is a counterseal, with the arms of the then seigneur, p. le pelley. "the other deed is of 1852, and sealed with the le pelley arms, which, on that occasion, are called 'le sceaux de la seigneurie de cette île'--the seigneur being p. c. le pelley. "the late mr. collings, i suspect, used the de carteret seal, which seems to have been lost in the wreck of the _gosforth_. the de carterets, no doubt, used the seal with their own arms, and some of their successors certainly used this same seal as the official seal for the island." the _arms_ of the ancient family of de carteret are, with supporters, _gu_--four fusils in fess conjoined _arg._, and _crest_, a squirrel sejant holding a sprig--_ppr._, and their historic motto--"loyall devoir." the jersey silver tokens of 1813. the hon. sir c. w. freemantle, k.c.b., master of the royal mint, has courteously favoured me with particulars of coinages as specially struck for the channel islands. as regards the jersey 3s. token of 1813, and the 1s. 6d. token of the same date, he says:-"these were coined at the royal mint, under authority from the committee of council on coins, dated 5th february, 1813. "£10,000 worth of silver bullion was purchased and coined into tokens of 3s. and 1s. 6d., nominal value. the current value of these coins appears to have been £11,473 17s. 6d., but there is no information as to the value of each of the two denominations of coins issued." the viscount of jersey [le gros] kindly supplements the above with the following local information:-"on the 26th october, 1812, the states, having taken into consideration the want of specie and of small coin current in the island--a want which makes itself more and more felt, both amongst the inhabitants and the troops in garrison--decided to order, with the sanction of government, the coinage of a certain quantity of small silver tokens for circulation in this island. a committee of nine members was named to consider the amount and value of the coins to be issued, and to enquire into the cost of such issue. "the states requested h.e. the lieut.-governor don to consult his majesty's ministers on the matter before proceeding further therein. "on the 12th december, 1812, a letter from lord chetwynd, clerk of the privy council, dated 18th november, 1812, in reply to the lieut.-governor's application, having been read, the states instructed their committee to take the necessary steps for the coining and putting in circulation in the island of small silver coins to the value of not more than £10,000 of such amounts and design as they may consider most suitable. "on the 20th march, 1813, the silver coinage struck at the royal mint by authority of the lords of the privy council for circulation in the island, being expected to arrive any day, which coins are of the value some of 3s., some of 1s. 6d., and bear on one side the arms of the island, and on the other their value--the states instructed their committee to take the necessary steps to put these coins into circulation as soon as they arrive, and the states engaged to take back the coins at their respective value, whenever it may become necessary, after having given one month's notice, both by publication in the several parishes and by advertisements in the local newspapers, to the holders to bring the coins to the treasurer of the states, and receive the amount thereof." * * * * * the viscount of jersey [le gros], in a letter dated seafield, 19th october, 1893, further informs me:-"the result of the issue of these coins was that they were exported in large quantities--to guernsey especially, and, i am told, to canada also, where they were at a premium, passing, no doubt, as if of the same value as english coins of the same denominations. "these coins, or what remained of them in the island, were called in by the states in 1834, in which year english money was declared the sole legal tender." the above-named two jersey silver tokens read respectively:- _o._ states of jersey, 18 13 = the arms of jersey--viz., _gules_, three lions passant gardant _or._ _r._ three | shillings | token, in three lines, within a wreath of oak leaves. and _o._ states of jersey, 11 13 = the arms of jersey. _r._ eighteen | pence | token, in three lines, within a wreath of oak leaves. these silver tokens were the only coins of that metal ever struck for the channel islands. the countermarked spanish dollars, indented "bishop de jersey and co.," belong to guernsey, and will be noticed together with the other coins of that island. copper and bronze coinages of jersey from 1841. the viscount of jersey [le gros] favours me with the following information:-"in 1834 it was enacted that from the 1st october, in that year, english money alone should be legal tender in the island, and that the pound sterling should be considered equal to 26 _livres_, old french currency, which was, up to the date above given, currency of the island. "there being 20 _sous_ to the _livre_, and 20 _shillings_ to the_ pound_, a shilling became the equivalent of 26 _sous_. the value of the jersey penny, or _pièce de deux sous_, therefore, became 1/13th of a shilling, the half-penny, or sou, 1/26th of a shilling, and the farthing, or _pièce de deux liards_, 1/52nd of a shilling." as regards the above, in plain english we may call a _livre_ a franc, a _sou_ a half-penny, and a _liard_ a half-farthing, as current in jersey. sir c. w. fremantle, deputy-master of the royal mint, has most kindly given me full particulars as to dates and amounts of actual supplies of copper coins to jersey; and the viscount of jersey has furnished me with records of quantities ordered; thus collectors will now be able to judge as to rarity of the different issues, and also to know for certain when they may happen to meet with patterns or coins not sent to jersey for circulation. numbers of pieces issued. pence half-pence farthings (2 _sous_).(1 _sou_). (1/2 _sou_). copper coins bearing date 1841. (the 116,480 232,960 116,480 order, dated 13th july, 1840, was to the value of £1,000). these, and up to date, 1871 inclusive, were for 1/13th, 1/26th, and 1/52nd. there was a further supply in 1844 27,040 232,960 - on december 13th, 1850, there was an no record. order, to the value of £1,000, for copper coins; but there is no record in the royal mint that supply was made therefrom. still, both pence and half-pence of date, 1851, were supplied for currency, and are still common. copper coins of date, 1858 (ordered to 173,333 173,333 - value of £2,000 on 15th october, 1857). copper coins of date, 1861 173,333 173,333 - bronze coins of date, 1866, ordered to 173,333 173,333 - value £2,000 under date 8th dec, 1864 ditto, ditto, 1870. in 1869 the old copper 173,333 173,333 - issues were called in to be used for recoining and re-issue as bronze coinage--as type of late bronze coinage of 1866. these re-coined issues were dated 1870 and 1871. bronze coins of date, 1871 (in continuance 173,333 173,333 - of last-named order). bronze coins of date, 1877. these coins 260,000 312,000 312,000 coins were 1/12th, 1/24th, and 1/48th of a shilling respectively, instead of being 1/13th, &c., as previously. on february 25th, 1876, the leading tradesmen of jersey had petitioned the states to this effect, and the states ordered £2,000 of the new denominations accordingly. at the same time, the coins of former denominations were called in. this new coinage was ordered through the royal mint, but actually struck by messrs. ralph heaton, of birmingham. bronze coins of date, 1881. £260 worth 81,380 - - of bronze farthings of 1877, for which there had been no demand in jersey, were sent back to the mint, and re-coined into pence, and thus re-issued. bronze coins of date, 1888. (£2,000 were 195,000 130,000 - ordered, but only £1,000 supplied). in 1894 the remainder of the bronze coinage ordered for jersey in 1888 was supplied. the value of this further supply, bearing date 1894, was £_750_ in coins 1/12th of a shilling, and £_250_ in coins 1/24th of a shilling. the original "states" authority was of the 16th january, 1888, confirmed by order in council dated 17th march, 1888. the first half, £750 and £250 respectively in denominations, had been re-coined in september, 1888. the descriptive reading of the first copper coinage of jersey is as follows, dates and values being altered as required--values issued being 1/13th, 1/26th, and 1/52nd of a shilling:-_o._ dexter bust[h] of her majesty the queen, with hair banded, as in the english contemporary shilling, with the legend victoria: d: g: britanniar: regina f.d.: 1841. [h] by _dexter_ bust is meant that the features, as eye, nose, and mouth, are towards the dexter edge of the coin or shield. _r._ ornamented shield of arms of jersey (_gules_--three lions or leopards passant gardant), with states of jersey around upper half--1/13 of a shilling around lower half. this type was issued from 1841 to 1861 intermittently. the bronze coinages of dates 1866, 1870, and 1871 have the bust coroneted, and an oak leaf scroll, and the one thirteenth written fully instead of expressed in figures and as a fraction, and initials of leonard c. wyon on truncation of neck. the issues were but of 1/13th and 1/26th of a shilling--none of 1/52nd (farthings). the bronze coinage of 1877 and subsequently reads as follows--with differences for values and dates:- _o._ dexter coroneted bust of her majesty, with seven-pointed star below, and letter h for heaton (minters) within the legend victoria d.g. britannia regina f.d. _r._ a pointed shield of jersey arms, dividing the date 18-77--states of jersey above, and one twelfth of a shilling around lower half. these were issued of the values 1/12th, 1/24th, and 1/48th of a shilling, thus inaugurating for the jersey penny the same fractional part of a shilling as obtained for the english penny. on guernsey coins from the middle ages. i am very greatly indebted to the rev. g. e. lee, m.a., f.s.a., rector of st. peter's port, guernsey, for the trouble he has kindly taken in searching old records and statutes relative to the currency in that island during the last 350 years. he has courteously given me permission to publish his extracts just as transcribed, and i here append these accordingly:-on guernsey currency. _orders of the royal court and of the states of guernsey._ royal court: 1.--1535, march 21. no one is to coin "freluques" in future. 2.--21st january, 1537. the carolusis to be held worth 12 deniers, and the vache worth 3 liards. 3.--collas guillemotte (22nd january, 1553) is authorized to coin _enseignes_ of latten. 4.--michaelmas, 1581. her majesty's receiver and others are to receive the coins named below at the values attached thereto, as follows:- the french crown = 20 silver groats. flemish crown = 19-1/2do. pistole = 19 do. double ducat = 14 sols sterling. double millerays = 14 do. noble, henry of france = 14 do. croizadelittle cross = 20-1/2 groats. ditto potence = 20 do. poll head= 15 do. real of spain = 6d. ob. sterling. 5.--michaelmas, 1582. value of various coins fixed as follows:- french crown at 19-1/2 gros. flemish at 19 do. croyzade little + at 20 do. do., + potence, at 19-1/2 do. pistolet at 18-1/2 do. 6.--jan. 16, 1586. value of coins fixed as follows:- french gold crown at 19-1/2 gros of silver. flemish at 1 sol tournois less than the escu soll. pistolet at 2 sols tournois less than the escu soll. frank at 6 silver gros (if of full weight). half frank at 3 do. quarter crown at 4-1/2 gros. half quarter crown at 2-1/4 do. teston of france at 17 deniers. 7.--30th september, 1605. french coins, not worn out--_e.g._, quarter and half-crowns, testons and half-testons, francs and half-francs--are to be received at the rate of 64 sols to the crown. reals to be held worth 5 deniers. 8.--4th october, 1619. many unauthorized persons having coined freluques, this is forbidden under pain of public whipping "jusqu' à effusion de sang." 9.--6th october, 1623. the normans having sent hither a quantity of deniers tournois, which they are passing for doubles, the governor is asked to appoint a person to coin freluques. 10.--17th april, 1626. the island being flooded with foreign doubles, no one shall be compelled to take more of them than the value of 2 sous tournois per crown of the money to be paid to him. states: 11.--february 26, 1640. a quantity of light french coin being current in the island, traders and others insist on weighing these moneys, refusing to take them at more than their true value. it is ordered that such money be always weighed, as is done in normandy. 12.--on the 3rd of the said february, 1640, it had been ordered that all such coins should pass for their nominal value without weighing. 13.--aug. 9, 1646. the states complain that whereas by their ancient customs they were allowed in guernsey to pay all dues to the king in such money as was current in normandy, the governor and his deputy had insisted on continuing to pay such french money as they had in their possession after it had been recalled, and would no longer pass in normandy. 14.--jan. 4, 1649. it hath been ordained this day that the english shilling, being worth 12 pence sterling, shall go in this island for 12 sols tournois in payment, and receate and other species of english money in proportion. royal court: 15.--oct. 5, 1713. great numbers of deniers having been brought into the island, not less than 15 of them shall be counted for a sol tournois. 16.--april 26, 1718. the last order is annulled, and the value of a denier fixed at 14 to the sol tournois. 17.--april 22, 1723. great abundance of deniers still being imported, they are now to be valued at 16 to the sol tournois. 18.--dec. 2, 1723. the value of deniers fixed at 20 to the sol tournois. 19.--dec. 7, 1723. marked sols are not to pass current. 20.--oct. 3, 1763. great quantity of liards (commonly called great doubles) being constantly sent out of the island, small change is difficult to get. the order of court of 2nd june, 1741 (which fixed the value of the said liard at 13 for 2 sols tournois) is annulled. liards of france, alias grand doubles, are to go 6 to the sol tournois; but none need accept more than 7 sols tournois at each payment. 21.--march 28, 1797. in order to keep in the island all english money and all foreign coin which can be used, the court orders that the french 6 franc pieces shall be held equal to 5s. 3d. sterling, and three livres pieces shall be held equal to 2s. 7-1/2d. sterling; and inasmuch as the bank of england has put in circulation a quantity of spanish dollars, fixing their price at 4s. 9d. sterling per dollar, the said dollars shall pass current here at the same value, and may not be refused. no money to be exported from guernsey. 22.--jan. 22, 1798. the last order repealed so far as relates to spanish dollars. 23.--sept. 30, 1799. no coined money is to be embarked here on pain of confiscation. merchandise imported is to be paid for by bills on london or other places; the masters of vessels are only to receive enough cash for their expenses here. 24.--jan. 2, 1802. owing to the scarcity of coined money, the court renews the ordinance of march 28, 1797, and orders that the said 6 livre pieces shall be current, and held worth 5s. 3d. sterling, and the 3 livre pieces worth 2s. 7-1/2d. sterling. export of money again forbidden. 25.--may 12, 1802. last ordinance _re_ 6 livre and 3 livre pieces repealed. 26.--jan. 17, 1803. deniers and centimes are not to be passed for liards, and to prevent fraud these small coins are not to be used in _rouleaux_, in which pieces of lead, wood, &c., are often to be found. 27.--aug. 5, 1809. export of money again forbidden, except of foreign dollars in parcels brought to the island, but not circulated. 28.--oct. 1, 1810. to the same effect. 29.--march 9, 1813. the importation of silver and copper _tokens_ forbidden. 30.--april 26, 1813. the ordinances forbidding the export of money repealed, except as regards money of the united kingdom. 31.--july 6, 1816. the constable complaining of the inconvenience caused by the fluctuation in the value of french money, "which has always been current in this island," the said coins are to pass at their current value, but may be refused. the values are fixed thus:- pieces or crowns of 6 francs to be worth 4s. 10d. petits ecus, 2s. 4d. pieces of 24 sous, 10d. pieces of 12 sous, 5d. this order is not to apply to worn-out or defaced coins, or to irish shillings and sixpences. 32.--april 24, 1817. the last order repealed, but the coins must be clearly marked, and need only be received to a fixed amount. 33.--june 14, 1821. liards are to be held worth 7 to the sou. 34.--april 15, 1829. the order of 6th july, 1816, repealed so far as regards the old french crowns of 6 francs. 35.--april 27th, 1829. considering that french money has been from time immemorial, and still is, legal currency in this island, orders that the _new_ french coinage shall be in use here--one franc to be worth 10 guernsey pennies. 36.--may 1, 1848. the french money not always being available in sufficient quantity, english gold and silver coins and bank of england notes are to b used concurrently with french money. the pound british sterling is to be held worth £1 1s. 3d. guernsey sterling. 37.--jan. 21, 1850. the last ordinance repealed. copper and bronze coinage of guernsey from 1830. sir c. w. freemantle kindly gives me the following information respecting copper coins minted and supplied for currency in guernsey:- ------------------------------------------------------------------------- | denominations supplied. | 1 | 2 | 4 | 8 | double.|doubles. |doubles.| doubles. |£ s. d. |£ s. d. |£ s. d.| £ s. d. | | | | [i]copper of date 1830--values sent |858 13 4 | |420 0 0| [i]additional sent in 1831 | | |420 0 0| | | | | [i]copper of date 1834--values sent | | | |410 13 4 [i]additional sent in 1836 | | |105 0 0|102 13 4 [i] " " " 1837 | | |210 0 0|205 6 [i] " " " 1839 | | |210 0 0|205 6 8 | | | | [j]copper of date 1858--values sent | |58 9 0|237 12 6|464 7 0 | | | | [j]bronze of date 1864--values sent | | |218 18 0|463 8 0 [j]additional sent in 1865 | | |224 16 0|723 0 0 [k]bronze of date 1868--values sent |33 10 6 | 36 2 10|120 4 0|228 0 0 | | | | [k]bronze of date 1874--values sent | | 48 2 0|144 4 0|305 4 0 | | | | [l]bronze of date 1885--values sent |29 4 6 | 74 5 0|145 4 0|290 8 0 | | | | [l]bronze of date 1889--values sent |58 6 6 | 37 2 0|217 12 0|924 16 0 | | | | [l]bronze of date 1893--values sent |29 3 6 | |108 16 0|490 0 0 --------------------------------------------------------------------------[i] coinage executed by messrs. r. boulton & co., soho, birmingham. [j] coinage executed by messrs. henry joy & co. [k] coinage executed by messrs. partridge & co., birmingham. [l] coinage executed by messrs. heaton & sons (now "the mint," birmingham, limited). the type of all the above copper and bronze issues for guernsey remains generally the same, there being, of course, specified the various dates and differences for value. the description of one coin, as following, will therefore answer in general terms for the whole of the issues:- _o._ the guernsey arms [_gules_, three lions passant gardant _or_], surmounted by a sprig of three laurel leaves, the whole within two laurel branches fastened by a ribbon, and with guernsey under. _r._ 8 |doubles| 1834, in three lines. minor points, such as the omission or insertion of the wreath of laurel and the beaded circle, are fully described in the works of mr. james atkins[m] and of mr. d. f. howorth[n], and need not therefore be repeated here. [m] "the coins and tokens of the possessions and colonies of the british empire," by james atkins. published by bernard quaritch, 15, piccadilly. 1889. [n] "coins and tokens of the english colonies and dependencies," by daniel f. howorth, f.s.a., scot. published by swan sonnenschein & co., paternoster square, 1890. p. briard, esq., makes the following interesting communication respecting the "double" from information he obtained from guernsey:-"the present guernsey "double" owes its name to an ancient french coin which became later the "liard," and equals the 1/4th part of a sou. i see, by an ordinance passed in the year 1763, the following clause:-"'que les paiements qui se firont en liards de france ou grand-doubles seront sur le pied de seulement de six liards ou grand-doubles par sol tournois.' "by another ordinance of more than a century before--viz., in 1626--i find these words: 'd'autant qu' à present, le païs estant rempli de _doubles_ apportis par les estrangers, plusieurs demeurent charges de grande quantité d'iceux doubles qu'ils ne peuvent mettre ny débiter à leur grande perte et dommage. a esté ordonné que dormavent seul recevant argent, ne sera tenu en prendre à plus de la valeur de deux sous par escu sur l'argent qu'il recevra.' "in the margin opposite this ordinance there is insertion of the words 'doubles ou liards,' thus showing decisively that with us in guernsey a double was a liard, and a liard a double. in france, however, in ancient coinage a liard was the fourth part of a sou, and a double intrinsically held of slightly higher value. we have kept the value of the double to be the same as that of the liard--that is to say, our guernsey half-penny is _quatre doubles_, and our penny _huit doubles_.'" silver countermarked guernsey crown. the only silver coin for guernsey was the spanish dollar, overstruck or countermarked as follows:- _o_. bishop de jersey & co. = the arms of guernsey within a double circle. _r._ bank of guernsey, 1809 = token of | five | shillings, in three lines--wreath of oak. specimens of this countermarked coin are now very rare. the one in the leycester sale, of june, 1888, lot 189, sold, together with the jersey 3s. tokens, for £3 10s.; and a higher price still has been more recently obtained. respecting this coin, the viscount of jersey [le gros] writes to me, under date 21st september, 1893:-"the firm of bishop de jersey & co., who issued the token in question in 1809, carried on the business of bankers in guernsey under the style of "the guernsey bank." this bank was in existence for about ten years in the beginning of the present century, and was, i am told, the first to issue paper money (£1 notes) in guernsey. it came to grief, however, after this short time. "there are descendants of mr. bishop still living in guernsey. "'mon plaisir' is the name of the family estate of the guernsey family of de jersey, of which the partner in the bank of that name was a member. "bishop and de jersey are two distinct family names, both belonging to guernsey." channel islands copper tokens. i have not, during two and a half years' stay in jersey, been able to find any 17th century token of the channel islands. the supply of small copper coins from france at that period prevented any inconvenience from want of currency of low denominations, and so probably no 17th century tokens were struck. nor were there any penny nor half-penny tokens struck for the channel islands between the years 1788 and 1797, when the issue of these, prior to the regal copper coinage of 1797, was so extensive in great britain. but in the years 1812 and 1813 the copper currency, as well as that of silver, ran short, owing chiefly to the great drain caused by the continental wars and the suspension of mintage work in common with other industries; accordingly, a few tokens, only six in all, of the penny size were issued from two sources. the description of these is as follows:- 1. _o._ jersey bank token, 1812 = laureated sinister bust of george iii. _r_. elias neel, jersey, a bank of england note for 240 tokens. 2. _o._ jersey bank, 1813 = a draped sinister bust of king george iii. _r._ one penny token--the figure of commerce seated. 3. _o._ jersey, guernsey, and alderney = one penny token. _r._ to facilitate trade, 1813 = prince of wales plume of ostrich feathers and motto. 4. _o._ as last. _r_. laureated bust of king george iii. within oak leaf wreath. 5. _o_. as last. _r._ one penny token within a wreath. 6. _o._ as last. _r._ pure copper preferable to paper. penny token = a druid's head. all the above-mentioned tokens are rare. i can find none whatever issued since 1813, nor prior to 1812. i have, in the above descriptions, taken the _obverse_ of tokens as the side of the coin specifying the bank or other source of issue. this makes uniformity in the descriptions more apparent perhaps, though, in one case, it wrongly throws the bust on the _reverse_. supplementary notes. all sorts and conditions of small coins were formerly current in the channel islands. these were almost entirely of french mintage. even at the present day, if at any ordinary shop in jersey you take change in coppers, you will probably find amongst them two or three french sous, two or three jersey pence or half-pence, an english penny or two, and one or two coins of spain or italy, and, until lately, even perhaps one of the numerous coins introduced by the russian troops who were formerly in jersey. at such public institutions as the main post office, none but english and jersey or guernsey pence and half-pence are the coppers received or given. as regards gold and silver currency, none but english-struck coins are usually fully current and tendered everywhere. le quesne, at a footnote, page 263, writes:--"the average weight of a jersey quarter of wheat is 260 lbs. english. compared to an english quarter, the proportion is 13/24." the rev. g. e. lee says:--"from the earliest times the quarter (guernsey measure or measures) of wheat has been the unit of currency here, the value of the quarter being every year proclaimed by the royal court and _affeuré_ in terms of so many _livres_ and _sols tournois_. the livre tournois is now held to be worth 1/14 of the guernsey pound sterling--_e.g._, in purchasing a property the contract will stipulate the value (even at the present day) _in quarters of wheat_, generally adding a proviso that the quarter payable is to be redeemed for £14 trs.--_i.e._, £1 guernsey sterling. fines imposed by the court are always expressed in livres, sols, and deniers tournois." with reference to extracts furnished me by mr. lee, he adds further:-"english and french coins of every sort seem to have been current here [in guernsey] from earliest times, the local value being fixed occasionally of such coins as were least in accord with those of normandy. "the most common former local coin seems to have been the _freluche_, which i take to be equal to the double.--_i.e._, the _double denier tournois_." £1 notes have been issued, by authority of the states, both for jersey and guernsey. with reference to the mixed copper coins in circulation, mention has been made that there were russian pieces tendered as small change. the following extracts from most interesting notes written by miss phillipa l. marette, of la haule manor, for "the jersey ladies' college magazine," will show clearly how it was that russian coins were for a while current in the channel islands:-"that clause in the bill of rights which forbids the landing of foreign troops in england, is responsible for the 'russian occupation of jersey,' for by it the russians, who were our allies in the ill-fated expedition to holland (undertaken for the re-establishment of the prince of orange), were prevented from taking up their quarters in england, and so were let loose upon the channel islands, there to await the arrival of their transports. great was the excitement of the inhabitants when, on the 24th november, 1799, the first detachment of the russian corps of emmé (now the pauloski regiment, which still wears the same head-dress, a tall gilt mitre) arrived in this island. "week after week brought fresh numbers, and by january, 1800, 6,505 russians were landed in jersey, the sister island of guernsey also receiving about the same number, and the whole force being under the command of a frenchman, general vilmeuil, who was created a field-marshal on the restoration of the bourbons. "as there were also at this time about 8,000 english troops in the place, it was somewhat difficult to find accommodation for the strangers. "a large camp was formed on grouville common. many were quartered in the st. helier's bay in the so-called 'blue barracks,' which were on the sand hill that then stretched between first tower and cheapside. mention is made of laurence's and pipon's barracks, the exact site of which i am unable to discover. they were probably private houses hired as temporary quarters, for we find that the old parsonage at st. brelade's, st. ouen's manor, and belle vue, near st. aubin's, were all used as such. about st. aubin's were distributed 995 men of a regiment of chasseurs and a regiment of grenadiers--61 being in hospital there. the general infirmary of the island was also hired by the russians, and was used mostly as a hospital, though some duty troops were also located therein. "the russians were only detained in the channel islands about six months, and by june 10th, 1800, had all left jersey. the mortality amongst them was very great, doubtless aggravated by defective sanitary arrangements and overcrowding. one of their rough burial grounds on grouville common was consecrated some years after their departure. they were buried usually in gardens, &c., near where they died, wrapped in their blankets only." the lady who furnishes the above interesting facts, gives also in her paper other most quaint and valuable particulars of these strange visitors. she had spent much time in gleaning all that could be got together, and this proved no easy matter, for, although the russian occupation of the channel islands occurred but 97 years ago, there is little obtainable record remaining. i have somewhat fully inserted notes to show how russian coins became current in the channel islands, because this has puzzled many. at the present time all english money is commonly current throughout the group of islands. this ebook was produced by david widger the battle of the strong [a romance of two kingdoms] by gilbert parker volume 5. chapter xxxi when ranulph returned to his little house at st. aubin's bay night had fallen. approaching he saw there was no light in the windows. the blinds were not drawn, and no glimmer of fire came from the chimney. he hesitated at the door, for he instinctively felt that something must have happened to his father. he was just about to enter, however, when some one came hurriedly round the corner of the house. "whist, boy," said a voice; "i've news for you." ranulph recognised the voice as that of dormy jamais. dormy plucked at his sleeve. "come with me, boy," said he. "come inside if you want to tell me something," answered ranulph. "ah bah, not for me! stone walls have ears. i'll tell only you and the wind that hears and runs away." "i must speak to my father first," answered ranulph. "come with me, i've got him safe," dormy chuckled to himself. ranulph's heavy hand dropped on his shoulder. "what's that you're saying--my father with you! what's the matter?" as though oblivious of ranulph's hand dormy went on chuckling. "whoever burns me for a fool 'll lose their ashes. des monz a fous--i have a head! come with me." ranulph saw that he must humour the shrewd natural, so he said: "et ben, put your four shirts in five bundles and come along." he was a true jerseyman at heart, and speaking to such as dormy jamais he used the homely patois phrases. he knew there was no use hurrying the little man, he would take his own time. "there's been the devil to pay," said dormy as he ran towards the shore, his sabots going clac--clac, clac--clac. "there's been the devil to pay in st. heliers, boy." he spoke scarcely above a whisper. "tcheche--what's that?" said ranulph. but dormy was not to uncover his pot of roses till his own time. "that connetable's got no more wit than a square bladed knife," he rattled on. "but gache-a-penn, i'm hungry!" and as he ran he began munching a lump of bread he took from his pocket. for the next five minutes they went on in silence. it was quite dark, and as they passed up market hill--called ghost lane because of the good little people who made it their highway--dormy caught hold of ranulph's coat and trotted along beside him. as they went, tokens of the life within came out to them through doorway and window. now it was the voice of a laughing young mother: "si tu as faim manges ta main et gardes l'autre pour demain; et ta tete pour le jour de fete; et ton gros ortee pour le jour saint norbe" and again: "let us pluck the bill of the lark, the lark from head to tail--" he knew the voice. it was that of a young wife of the parish of st. saviour: married happily, living simply, given a frugal board, after the manner of her kind, and a comradeship for life. for the moment he felt little but sorrow for himself. the world seemed to be conspiring against him: the chorus of fate was singing behind the scenes, singing of the happiness of others in sardonic comment on his own final unhappiness. yet despite the pain of finality there was on him something of the apathy of despair. from another doorway came fragments of a song sung at a veille. the door was open, and he could see within the happy gathering of lads and lassies in the light of the crasset. there was the spacious kitchen, its beams and rafters dark with age, adorned with flitches of bacon, huge loaves resting in the racllyi beneath the centre beam, the broad open hearth, the flaming fire of logs, and the great brass pan shining like freshcoined gold, on its iron tripod over the logs. lassies in their short woollen petticoats, and bedgones of blue and lilac, with boisterous lads, were stirring the contents of the vast bashin--many cabots of apples, together with sugar, lemon-peel, and cider; the old ladies in mob-caps tied under the chin, measuring out the nutmeg and cinnamon to complete the making of the black butter: a jocund recreation for all, and at all times. in one corner was a fiddler, and on the veille, flourished for the occasion with satinettes and fern, sat two centeniers and the prevot, singing an old song in the patois of three parishes. ranulph looked at the scene lingeringly. here he was, with mystery and peril to hasten his steps, loitering at the spot where the light of home streamed out upon the roadway. but though he lingered, somehow he seemed withdrawn from all these things; they were to him now as pictures of a distant past. dormy plucked at his coat. "come, come, lift your feet, lift your feet," said he; "it's no time to walk in slippers. the old man will be getting scared, oui-gia!" ranulph roused himself. yes, yes, he must hurry on. he had not forgotten his father, but something held him here; as though fate were whispering in his ear. what does it matter now? while yet you may, feed on the sight of happiness. so the prisoner going to execution seizes one of the few moments left to him for prayer, to look lingeringly upon what he leaves, as though to carry into the dark a clear remembrance of it all. moving on quietly in a kind of dream, ranulph was roused again by dormy's voice: "on sunday i saw three magpies, and there was a wedding that day. tuesday i saw two--that's for joy--and fifty jersey prisoners of the french comes back on jersey that day. this morning one i saw. one magpie is for trouble, and trouble's here. one doesn't have eyes for naught--no, bidemme!" ranulph's patience was exhausted. "bachouar," he exclaimed roughly, "you make elephants out of fleas! you've got no more news than a conch-shell has music. a minute and you'll have a back-hander that'll put you to sleep, maitre dormy." if he had been asked his news politely dormy would have been still more cunningly reticent. to abuse him in his own argot was to make him loose his bag of mice in a flash. "bachouar yourself, maitre ranulph! you'll find out soon. no news--no trouble--eh! par made, mattingley's gone to the vier prison--he! the baker's come back, and the connetable's after olivier delagarde. no trouble, pardingue, if no trouble, dormy jamais's a batd'lagoule and no need for father of you to hide in a place that only dormy knows--my good!" so at last the blow had fallen; after all these years of silence, sacrifice, and misery. the futility of all that he had done and suffered for his father's sake came home to ranulph. yet his brain was instantly alive. he questioned dormy rapidly and adroitly, and got the story from him in patches. the baker carcaud, who, with olivier delagarde, betrayed the country into the hands of rullecour years ago, had, with a french confederate of mattingley's, been captured in attempting to steal jean touzel's boat, the hardi biaou. at the capture the confederate had been shot. before dying he implicated mattingley in several robberies, and a notorious case of piracy of three months before, committed within gunshot of the men-ofwar lying in the tide-way. carcaud, seriously wounded, to save his life turned king's evidence, and disclosed to the royal court in private his own guilt and olivier delagarde's treason. hidden behind the great chair of the bailly himself, dormy jamais had heard the whole business. this had brought him hot-foot to st. aubin's bay, whence he had hurried olivier delagarde to a hiding-place in the hills above the bay of st. brelade. the fool had travelled more swiftly than jersey justice, whose feet are heavy. elie mattingley was now in the vier prison. there was the whole story. the mask had fallen, the game was up. well, at least there would be no more lying, no more brutalising inward shame. all at once it appeared to ranulph madness that he had not taken his father away from jersey long ago. yet too he knew that as things had been with guida he could never have stayed away. nothing was left but action. he must get his father clear of the island and that soon. but how? and where should they go? he had a boat in st. aubin's bay: getting there under cover of darkness he might embark with his father and set sail--whither? to sark--there was no safety there. to guernsey--that was no better. to france--yes, that was it, to the war of the vendee, to join detricand. no need to find the scrap of paper once given him in the vier marchi. wherever detricand might be, his fame was the highway to him. all france knew of the companion of de la rochejaquelein, the fearless comte de tournay. ranulph made his decision. shamed and dishonoured in jersey, in that holy war of the vendee he would find something to kill memory, to take him out of life without disgrace. his father must go with him to france, and bide his fate there also. by the time his mind was thus made up, they had reached the lonely headland dividing portelet bay from st. brelade's. dark things were said of this spot, and the country folk of the island were wont to avoid it. beneath the cliffs in the sea was a rocky islet called janvrin's tomb. one janvrin, ill of a fell disease, and with his fellows forbidden by the royal court to land, had taken refuge here, and died wholly neglected and without burial. afterwards his body lay exposed till the ravens and vultures devoured it, and at last a great storm swept his bones off into the sea. strange lights were to be seen about this rock, and though wise men guessed them mortal glimmerings, easily explained, they sufficed to give the headland immunity from invasion. to a cave at this point dormy jamais had brought the trembling olivier delagarde, unrepenting and peevish, but with a craven fear of the royal court and a furious populace quickening his footsteps. this hiding-place was entered at low tide by a passage from a larger cave. it was like a little vaulted chapel floored with sand and shingle. a crevice through rock and earth to the world above let in the light and out the smoke. here olivier delagarde sat crouched over a tiny fire, with some bread and a jar of water at his hand, gesticulating and talking to himself. the long white hair and beard, with the benevolent forehead, gave him the look of some latter-day st. helier, grieving for the sins and praying for the sorrows of mankind; but from the hateful mouth came profanity fit only for the dreadful communion of a witches' sabbath. hearing the footsteps of ranulph and dormy, he crouched and shivered in terror, but ranulph, who knew too well his revolting cowardice, called to him reassuringly. on their approach he stretched out his talon-like fingers in a gesture of entreaty. "you'll not let them hang me, ranulph--you'll save me," he whimpered. "don't be afraid, they shall not hang you," ranulph replied quietly, and began warming his hands at the fire. "you'll swear it, ranulph--on the bible?" "i've told you they shall not hang you. you ought to know by now whether i mean what i say," his son answered more sharply. assuredly ranulph meant that his father should not be hanged. whatever the law was, whatever wrong the old man had done, it had been atoned for; the price had been paid by both. he himself had drunk the cup of shame to the dregs, but now he would not swallow the dregs. an iron determination entered into him. he had endured all that he would endure from man. he had set out to defend olivier delagarde from the worst that might happen, and he was ready to do so to the bitter end. his scheme of justice might not be that of the royal court, but he would defend it with his life. he had suddenly grown hard--and dangerous. chapter xxxii the royal court was sitting late. candles had been brought to light the long desk or dais where sat the bailly in his great chair, and the twelve scarlet-robed jurats. the attorney-general stood at his desk, mechanically scanning the indictment read against prisoners charged with capital crimes. his work was over, and according to his lights he had done it well. not even the undertaker's apprentice could have been less sensitive to the struggles of humanity under the heel of fate and death. a plaintive complacency, a little righteous austerity, and an agreeable expression of hunger made the attorney-general a figure in godly contrast to the prisoner awaiting his doom in the iron cage opposite. there was a singular stillness in this sombre royal court, where only a tallow candle or two and a dim lanthorn near the door filled the room with flickering shadows-great heads upon the wall drawing close together, and vast lips murmuring awful secrets. low whisperings came through the dusk like mournful nightwinds carrying tales of awe through a heavy forest. once in the long silence a figure rose up silently, and stealing across the room to a door near the jury box, tapped upon it with a pencil. a moment's pause, the door opened slightly, and another shadowy figure appeared, whispered, and vanished. then the first figure closed the door again silently, and came and spoke softly up to the bailly, who yawned in his hand, sat back in his chair, and drummed his fingers upon the arm. thereupon the other--the greffier of the court--settled down at his desk beneath the jurats, and peered into an open book before him, his eyes close to the page, reading silently by the meagre light of a candle from the great desk behind him. now a fat and ponderous avocat rose up and was about to speak, but the bailly, with a peevish gesture, waved him down, and he settled heavily into place again. at last the door at which the greffier had tapped opened, and a gaunt figure in a red robe came out. standing in the middle of the room he motioned towards the great pew opposite the attorney-general. slowly the twenty-four men of the grand jury following him filed into place and sat themselves down in the shadows. then the gaunt figure--the vicomte or high sheriff--bowing to the bailly and the jurats, went over and took his seat beside the attorney-general. whereupon the bailly leaned forward and droned a question to the grand enquete in the shadow. one rose up from among the twenty-four, and out of the dusk there came in reply to the judge a squeaking voice: "we find the prisoner at the bar more guilty than innocent." a shudder ran through the court. but some one not in the room shuddered still more violently. from the gable window of a house in the rue des tres pigeons, a girl had sat the livelong day, looking, looking into the court-room. she had watched the day decline, the evening come, and the lighting of the crassets and the candles, and had waited to hear the words that meant more to her than her own life. at last the great moment came, and she could hear the foreman's voice whining the fateful words, "more guilty than innocent." it was carterette mattingley, and the prisoner at the bar was her father. chapter xxxiii mattingley's dungeon was infested with rats and other vermin, he had only straw for his bed, and his food and drink were bread and water. the walls were damp with moisture from the fauxbie running beneath, and a mere glimmer of light came through a small barred window. superstition had surrounded the vier prison with horrors. as carts passed under the great archway, its depth multiplied the sounds so powerfully, the echoes were so fantastic, that folk believed them the roarings of fiendish spirits. if a mounted guard hurried through, the reverberation of the drum-beats and the clatter of hoofs were so uncouth that children stopped their ears and fled in terror. to the ignorant populace the vier prison was the home of noisome serpents and the rendezvous of the devil and his witches of rocbert. when therefore the seafaring merchant of the vier marchi, whose massive, brass-studded bahue had been as a gay bazaar where the gentry of jersey refreshed their wardrobes, with one eye closed--when he was transferred to the vier prison, little wonder he should become a dreadful being round whom played the lightnings of dark fancy. elie mattingley the popular sinner, with insolent gold rings in his ears, unchallenged as to how he came by his merchandise, was one person; elie mattingley, a torch for the burning, and housed amid the terrors of the vier prison, was another. few people in jersey slept the night before his execution. here and there kind-hearted women or unimportant men lay awake through pity, and a few through a vague sense of loss; for, henceforth, the vier marchi would lack a familiar interest; but mostly the people of mattingley's world were wakeful through curiosity. morbid expectation of the hanging had for them a gruesome diversion. the thing itself would break the daily monotony of life and provide hushed gossip for vraic gatherings and veilles for a long time to come. thus elie mattingley would not die in vain! here was one sensation, but there was still another. olivier delagarde had been unmasked, and the whole island had gone tracking him down. no aged toothless tiger was ever sported through the jungle by an army of shikarris with hungrier malice than was this broken traitor by the people he had betrayed. ensued, therefore, a commingling of patriotism with lust of man-hunting and eager expectation of to-morrow's sacrifice. nothing of this excitement disturbed mattingley. he did not sleep, but that was because he was still watching for a means of escape. he felt his chances diminish, however, when about midnight an extra guard was put round the prison. something had gone amiss in the matter of his rescue. three things had been planned. firstly, he was to try escape by the small window of the dungeon. secondly, carterette was to bring sebastian alixandre to the prison disguised as a sorrowing aunt of the condemned. alixandre was suddenly to overpower the jailer, mattingley was to make a rush for freedom, and a few bold spirits without would second his efforts and smuggle him to the sea. the directing mind and hand in the business were ranulph delagarde's. he was to have his boat waiting to respond to a signal from the shore, and to make sail for france, where he and his father were to be landed. there he was to give mattingley, alixandre, and carterette his craft to fare across the seas to the great fishing-ground of gaspe in canada. lastly, if these plans failed, the executioner was to be drugged with liquor, his besetting weakness, on the eve of the hanging. the first plan had been found impossible, the window being too small for even mattingley's head to get through. the second had failed because the righteous royal court forbade carterette the prison, intent that she should no longer be contaminated by so vile a wretch as her father. for years this same christian solicitude had looked down from the windows of the cohue royale upon this same criminal in the vier marchi, with one blind eye for himself the sinner and an open one for his merchandise. mattingley could hear the hollow sound of the sentinels' steps under the archway of the vier prison. he was quite stoical. if he had to die, then he had to die. death could only be a little minute of agony; and for what came after--well, he had not thought fearfully of that, and he had no wish to think of it at all. the visiting chaplain had talked, and he had not listened. he had his own ideas about life, and death, and the beyond, and they were not ungenerous. the chaplain had found him patient but impossible, kindly but unresponsive, sometimes even curious, but without remorse. "you should repent with sorrow and a contrite heart," said the clergyman. "you have done many evil things in your life, mattingley." mattingley had replied: "ma fuifre, i can't remember them! i know i never done them, for i never done anything but good all my life--so much for so much." he had argued it out with himself and he believed he was a good man. he had been open-handed, had stood by his friends, and, up to a few days ago, was counted a good citizen; for many had come to profit through him. his trade--a little smuggling, a little piracy? was not the former hallowed by distinguished patronage, and had it not existed from immemorial time? it was fair fight for gain, an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth. if he hadn't robbed others on the high seas, they would probably have robbed him--and sometimes they did. his spirit was that of the elizabethan admirals; he belonged to a century not his own. as for the crime for which he was to suffer, it had been the work of another hand, and very bad work it was, to try and steal jean touzel's hardi biaou, and then bungle it. he had had nothing to do with it, for he and jean touzel were the best of friends, as was proved by the fact that while he lay in his dungeon, jean wandered the shore sorrowing for his fate. thinking now of the whole business and of his past life, mattingley suddenly had a pang. yes, remorse smote him at last. there was one thing on his conscience--only one. he had respect for the feelings of others, and where the church was concerned this was mingled with a droll sort of pity, as of the greater for the lesser, the wise for the helpless. for clergymen he had a half-affectionate contempt. he remembered now that when, five years ago, his confederate who had turned out so badly--he had trusted him, too! had robbed the church of st. michael's, carrying off the great chest of communion plate, offertories, and rents, he had piously left behind in mattingley's house the vestry-books and parish-register; a nice definition in rogues' ethics. awaiting his end now, it smote mattingley's soul that these stolen records had not been returned to st. michael's. next morning he must send word to carterette to restore the books. then his conscience would be clear once more. with this resolve quieting his mind, he turned over on his straw and went peacefully to sleep. hours afterwards he waked with a yawn. there was no start, no terror, but the appearance of the jailer with the chaplain roused in him disgust for the coming function at the mont es pendus. disgust was his chief feeling. this was no way for a man to die! with a choice of evils he should have preferred walking the plank, or even dying quietly in his bed, to being stifled by a rope. to dangle from a cross-tree like a half-filled bag offended all instincts of picturesqueness, and first and last he had been picturesque. he asked at once for pencil and paper. his wishes were obeyed with deference. on the whole he realised by the attentions paid him--the brandy and the food offered by the jailer, the fluttering kindness of the chaplain--that in the life of a criminal there is one moment when he commands the situation. he refused the brandy, for he was strongly against spirits in the early morning, but asked for coffee. eating seemed superfluous--and a man might die more gaily on an empty stomach. he assured the chaplain that he had come to terms with his conscience and was now about to perform the last act of a well-intentioned life. there and then he wrote to carterette, telling her about the vestry-books of st. michael's, and begging that she should restore them secretly. there were no affecting messages; they understood each other. he knew that when it was possible she would never fail to come to the mark where he was concerned, and she had equal faith in him. so the letter was sealed, addressed with flourishes, he was proud of his handwriting, and handed to the chaplain for carterette. he had scarcely drunk his coffee when there was a roll of drums outside. mattingley knew that his hour was come, and yet to his own surprise he had no violent sensations. he had a shock presently, however, for on the jailer announcing the executioner, who should be there before him but the undertaker's apprentice! in politeness to the chaplain mattingley forbore profanity. this was the one jerseyman for whom he had a profound hatred, this youth with the slow, cold, watery blue eye, a face that never wrinkled either with mirth or misery, the square-set teeth always showing a little--an involuntary grimace of cruelty. here was insult. "devil below us, so you're going to do it--you!" broke out mattingley. "the other man was drunk," said the undertaker's apprentice. "he's been full as a jug three days. he got drunk too soon." the grimace seemed to widen. "o my good!" said mattingley, and he would say no more. to him words were like nails--of no use unless they were to be driven home by acts. to mattingley the procession of death was stupidly slow. as it issued from the archway of the vier prison between mounted guards, and passed through a long lane of moving spectators, he looked round coolly. one or two bold spirits cried out: "head up to the wind, maitre elie!" "oui-gia," he replied; "devil a top-sail in!" and turned a look of contempt on those who hooted him. he realised now that there was no chance of rescue. the militia and the town guard were in ominous force, and although his respect for the island military was not devout, a bullet from the musket of a fool might be as effective as one from bonapend's-as napoleon bonaparte was disdainfully called in jersey. yet he could not but wonder why all the plans of alixandre, carterette, and ranulph had gone for nothing; even the hangman had been got drunk too soon! he had a high opinion of ranulph, and that he should fail him was a blow to his judgment of humanity. he was thoroughly disgusted. also they had compelled him to put on a white shirt, he who had never worn linen in his life. he was ill at ease in it. it made him conspicuous; it looked as though he were aping the gentleman at the last. he tried to resign himself, but resignation was hard to learn so late in life. somehow he could not feel that this was really the day of his death. yet how could it be otherwise? there was the vicomte in his red robe, there was the sinister undertaker's apprentice, ready to do his hangman's duty. there, as they crossed the mielles, while the sea droned its sing-song on his left, was the parson droning his sing-song on the right "in the midst of life we are in death," etc. there were the grumbling drums, and the crowd morbidly enjoying their roman holiday; and there, looming up before him, were the four stone pillars on the mont es pendus from which he was to swing. his disgust deepened. he was not dying like a seafarer who had fairly earned his reputation. his feelings found vent even as he came to the foot of the platform where he was to make his last stand, and the guards formed a square about the great pillars, glooming like druidic altars. he burst forth in one phrase expressive of his feelings. "sacre matin--so damned paltry!" he said, in equal tribute to two races. the undertaker's apprentice, thinking this a reflection upon his arrangements, said, with a wave of the hand to the rope: "nannin, ch'est tres ship-shape, maitre!" the undertaker's apprentice was wrong. he had made everything shipshape, as he thought, but a gin had been set for him. the rope to be used at the hanging had been measured and approved by the vicomte, and the undertaker's apprentice had carried it to his room at the top of the cohue royale. in the dead of night, however, dormy jamais drew it from under the mattress whereon the deathman slept, and substituted one a foot longer. this had been ranulph's idea as a last resort, for he had a grim wish to foil the law even at the twelfth hour. the great moment had come. the shouts and hootings ceased. out of the silence there arose only the champing of a horse's bit or the hysterical giggle of a woman. the high painful drone of the chaplain's voice was heard. then came the fatal "maintenant!" from the vicomte, the platform fell, and elie mattingley dropped the length of the rope. what was the consternation of the vicomte and the hangman, and the horror of the crowd, to see that mattingley's toes just touched the ground! the body shook and twisted. the man was being slowly strangled, not hanged. the undertaker's apprentice was the only person who kept a cool head. the solution of the problem of the rope for afterwards, but he had been sent there to hang a man, and a man he would hang somehow. without more ado he jumped upon mattingley's shoulders and began to drag him down. that instant ranulph delagarde burst through the mounted guard and the militia. rushing to the vicomte, he exclaimed: "shame! the man was to be hung, not strangled. this is murder. stop it, or i'll cut the rope." he looked round on the crowd. "cowards-cowards," he cried, "will you see him murdered?" he started forward to drag away the deathmann, but the vicomte, thoroughly terrified at ranulph's onset, himself seized the undertaker's apprentice, who, drawing off with unruffled malice, watched what followed with steely eyes. dragged down by the weight of the apprentice, mattingley's feet were now firmly on the ground. while the excited crowd tried to break through the cordon of mounted guards, mattingley, by a twist and a jerk, freed his corded hands. loosing the rope at his neck he opened his eyes and looked around him, dazed and dumb. the apprentice came forward. "i'll shorten the rope oui-gia! then you shall see him swing," he grumbled viciously to the vicomte. the gaunt vicomte was trembling with excitement. he looked helplessly around him. the apprentice caught hold of the rope to tie knots in it and so shorten it, but ranulph again appealed to the vicomte. "you've hung the man," said he; "you've strangled him and you didn't kill him. you've got no right to put that rope round his neck again." two jurats who had waited on the outskirts of the crowd, furtively watching the effect of their sentence, burst in, as distracted as the vicomte. "hang the man again and the whole world will laugh at you," ranulph said. "if you're not worse than fools or turks you'll let him go. he has had death already. take him back to the prison then, if you're afraid to free him." he turned on the crowd fiercely. "have you nothing to say to this butchery?" he cried. "for the love of god, haven't you anything to say?" half the crowd shouted "let him go free!" and the other half, disappointed in the working out of the gruesome melodrama, groaned and hooted. meanwhile mattingley stood as still as ever he had stood by his bahue in the vier marchi, watching--waiting. the vicomte conferred nervously with the jurats for a moment, and then turned to the guard. "take the prisoner to the vier prison," he said. mattingley had been slowly solving the problem of his salvation. his eye, like a gimlet, had screwed its way through ranulph's words into what lay behind, and at last he understood the whole beautiful scheme. it pleased him: carterette had been worthy of herself, and of him. ranulph had played his game well too. he only failed to do justice to the poor beganne, dormy jamais. but then the virtue of fools is its own reward. as the procession started back with the undertaker's apprentice now following after mattingley, not going before, mattingley turned to him, and with a smile of malice said: "ch'est tres ship-shape, maitre-eh!" and he jerked his head back towards the inadequate rope. he was not greatly troubled about the rest of this grisly farce. he was now ready for breakfast, and his appetite grew as he heard how the crowd hooted and snarled yah! at the undertaker's apprentice. he was quite easy about the future. what had been so well done thus far could not fail in the end. chapter xxxiv events proved mattingley right. three days after, it was announced that he had broken prison. it is probable that the fury of the royal court at the news was not quite sincere, for it was notable that the night of his evasion, suave and uncrestfallen, they dined in state at the tres pigeons. the escape gave them happy issue from a quandary. the vicomte officially explained that mattingley had got out by the dungeon window. people came to see the window, and there, ba su, the bars were gone! but that did not prove the case, and the mystery was deepened by the fact that jean touzel, whose head was too small for elie's hat, could not get that same head through the dungeon window. having proved so much, jean left the mystery there, and returned to his hardi biaou. this happened on the morning after the dark night when mattingley, carterette, and alixandre hurried from the vier prison, through the rue des sablons to the sea, and there boarded ranulph's boat, wherein was olivier delagarde the traitor. accompanying carterette to the shore was a little figure that moved along beside them like a shadow, a little grey figure that carried a goldheaded cane. at the shore this same little grey figure bade mattingley good-bye with a quavering voice. whereupon carterette, her face all wet with tears, kissed him upon both cheeks, and sobbed so that she could scarcely speak. for now when it was all done--all the horrible ordeal over--the woman in her broke down before the little old gentleman, who had been like a benediction in the house where the ten commandments were imperfectly upheld. but she choked down her sobs, and thinking of another more than of herself, she said: "dear chevalier, do not forget the book--that register--i gave you to-night. read it--read the last writing in it, and then you will know-ah, bidemme--but you will know that her we love--ah, but you must read it and tell nobody till--till the right time comes! she hasn't held her tongue for naught, and it's only fair to do as she's done all along, and hold ours. pardingue, but my heart hurts me!" she added suddenly, and catching the hand that held the little gold cane she kissed it with impulsive ardour. "you have been so good to me--oui-gia!" she said with a gulp, and then she dropped the hand and turned and fled to the boat rocking in the surf. the little chevalier watched the boat glide out into the gloom of night, and waited till he knew that they must all be aboard ranulph's schooner and making for the sea. then he turned and went back to the empty house in the rue d'egypte. opening the book carterette had placed in his hands before they left the house, he turned up and scanned closely the last written page. a moment after, he started violently, his eyes dilating, first with wonder, then with a bewildered joy; and then, protestant though he was, with the instinct of long-gone forefathers, he made the sacred gesture, and said: "now i have not lived and loved in vain, thanks be to god!" even as joy opened wide the eyes of the chevalier, who had been sorely smitten through the friends of his heart, out at sea night and death were closing the eyes of another wan old man who had been a traitor to his country. for the boat of the fugitives had scarcely cleared reefs and rocks, and reached the open channel, when olivier delagarde, uttering the same cry as when ranulph and the soldiers had found him wounded in the grouville road sixteen years before, suddenly started up from where he had lain mumbling, and whispering incoherently, "ranulph--they've killed me!" fell back dead. true to the instinct which had kept him faithful to one idea for sixteen years, and in spite of the protests of mattingley and carterette--of the despairing carterette who felt the last thread of her hopes snap with his going--ranulph made ready to leave them. bidding them good-bye, he placed his father's body in the rowboat, and pulling back to the shore of st. aubin's bay with his pale freight, carried it on his shoulders up to the little house where he had lived so many years. there he kept the death-watch alone. chapter xxxv guida knew nothing of the arrest and trial of mattingley until he had been condemned to death. nor until then did she know anything of what had happened to olivier delagarde; for soon after her interview with ranulph she had gone a-marketing to the island of sark, with the results of half a year's knitting. her return had been delayed by ugly gales from the south east. several times a year she made this journey, landing at the eperquerie rocks as she had done one day long ago, and selling her beautiful wool caps and jackets to the farmers and fisher-folk, getting in kind for what she gave. when she made these excursions to sark, dormy jamais had always remained at the little house, milking her cow, feeding her fowls, and keeping all in order--as perfect a sentinel as old biribi, and as faithful. for the first time in his life, however, dormy jamais was unfaithful. on the day that carcaud the baker and mattingley were arrested, he deserted the hut at plemont to exploit, with ranulph, the adventure which was at last to save olivier delagarde and mattingley from death. but he had been unfaithful only in the letter of his bond. he had gone to the house of jean touzel, through whose hardi biaou the disaster had come, and had told mattresse aimable that she must go to plemont in his stead--for a fool must keep his faith whate'er the worldly wise may do. so the fat femme de ballast, puffing with every step, trudged across the island to plemont, and installed herself as keeper of the house. one day mattresse aimable's quiet was invaded by two signalmen who kept watch, not far from guida's home, for all sail, friend or foe, bearing in sight. they were now awaiting the new admiral of the jersey station and his fleet. with churlish insolence they entered guida's hut before maitresse aimable could prevent it. looking round, they laughed meaningly, and then told her that the commander coming presently to lie with his fleet in grouville bay was none other than the sometime jersey midshipman, now admiral prince philip d'avranche, duc de bercy. understanding then the meaning of their laughter, and the implied insult to guida, maitresse aimable's voice came ravaging out of the silence where it lay hid so often and so long, and the signalmen went their ways shamefacedly. she could not make head or tail of her thoughts now, nor see an inch before her nose; all she could feel was an aching heart for guida. she had heard strange tales of how philip had become prince philip d'avranche, and husband of the comtesse chantavoine, and afterwards duc de bercy. also she had heard how philip, just before he became the duc de bercy, had fought his ship against a french vessel off ushant, and, though she had heavier armament than his own, had destroyed her. for this he had been made an admiral. only the other day her jean had brought the gazette de jersey in which all these things were related, and had spelled them out for her. and now this same philip d'avranche with his new name and fame was on his way to defend the isle of jersey. mattresse aimable's muddled mind could not get hold of this new philip. for years she had thought him a monster, and here he was, a great and valiant gentleman to the world. he had done a thing that jean would rather have cut off his hand--both hands--than do, and yet here he was, an admiral, a prince, and a sovereign duke, and men like jean were as dust beneath his feet. the real philip she knew: he was the man who had spoiled the life of a woman; this other philip--she could read about him, she could think about him, just as she could think about william and his horse' in boulay bay, or the little bad folk of rocbert; but she could not realise him as a thing of flesh and blood and actual being. the more she tried to realise him the more mixed she became. as in her mental maze she sat panting her way to enlightenment, she saw guida's boat entering the little harbour. now the truth must be told-but how? after her first exclamation of welcome to mother and child, maitresse aimable struggled painfully for her voice. she tried to find words in which to tell guida the truth, but, stopping in despair, she suddenly began rocking the child back and forth, saying only: "prince admiral he --and now to come! o my good--o my good!" guida's sharp intuition found the truth. "philip d'avranche!" she said to herself. then aloud, in a shaking voice--"philip d'avranche!" she could not think clearly for a moment. it was as if her brain had received a blow, and in her head was a singing numbness, obscuring eyesight, hearing, speech. when she had recovered a little she took the child from maitresse aimable, and pressing him to her bosom placed him in the sieur de mauprat's great arm-chair. this action, ordinary as it seemed, was significant of what was in her mind. the child himself realised something unusual, and he sat perfectly still, two small hands spread out on the big arms. "you always believed in me, 'tresse aimable," guida said at last in a low voice. "oui-gia, what else?" was the instant reply. the quick responsiveness of her own voice seemed to confound the femme de ballast, and her face suffused. guida stooped quickly and kissed her on the cheek. "you'll never regret that. and you will have to go on believing still, but you'll not be sorry in the end, 'tresse aimable," she said, and turned away to the fireplace. an hour afterwards mattresse aimable was upon her way to st. heliers, but now she carried her weight more easily and panted less. twice within the last month jean had given her ear a friendly pinch, and now guida had kissed her--surely she had reason to carry her weight more lightly. that afternoon and evening guida struggled with herself: the woman in her shrinking from the ordeal at hand. but the mother in her pleaded, commanded, ruled confused emotions to quiet. finality of purpose once determined, a kind of peace came over her sick spirit, for with finality there is quiescence if not peace. when she looked at the little guilbert, refined and strong, curiously observant, and sensitive in temperament like herself, her courage suddenly leaped to a higher point than it had ever known. this innocent had suffered enough. what belonged to him he had not had. he had been wronged in much by his father, and maybe--and this was the cruel part of it--had been unwittingly wronged, alas! how unwilling, by her! if she gave her own life many times, it still could be no more than was the child's due. a sudden impulse seized her, and with a quick explosion of feeling she dropped on her knees, and looking into his eyes, as though hungering for the words she so often yearned to hear, she said: "you love your mother, guilbert? you love her, little son?" with a pretty smile and eyes brimming with affectionate fun, but without a word, the child put out a tiny hand and drew the fingers softly down his mother's face. "speak, little son, tell your mother that you love her." the tiny hand pressed itself over her eyes, and a gay little laugh came from the sensitive lips, then both arms ran round her neck. the child drew her head to him impulsively, and kissing her, a little upon the hair and a little upon the forehead, so indefinite was the embrace, he said: "si, maman, i loves you best of all," then added: "maman, can't i have the sword now?" "you shall have the sword too some day," she answered, her eyes flashing. "but, maman, can't i touch it now?" without a word she took down the sheathed goldhandled sword and laid it across the chair-arms. "i can't take the sword out, can i, maman?" he asked. she could not help smiling. "not yet, my son, not yet." "i has to be growed up so the blade doesn't hurt me, hasn't i, maman?" she nodded and smiled again, and went about her work. he nodded sagely. "maman--" he said. she turned to him; the little figure was erect with a sweet importance. "maman, what am i now--with the sword?" he asked, with wide-open, amazed eyes. a strange look passed across her face. stooping, she kissed his curly hair. "you are my prince," she said. a little later the two were standing on that point of land called grosnez--the brow of the jersey tiger. not far from them was a signalstaff which telegraphed to another signal-staff inland. upon the staff now was hoisted a red flag. guida knew the signals well. the red flag meant warships in sight. then bags were hoisted that told of the number of vessels: one, two, three, four, five, six, then one next the upright, meaning seven. last of all came the signal that a flag-ship was among them. this was a fleet in command of an admiral. there, not far out, between guernsey and jersey, was the squadron itself. guida watched it for a long while, her heart hardening; but seeing that the men by the signalstaff were watching her, she took the child and went to a spot where they were shielded from any eyes. here she watched the fleet draw nearer and nearer. the vessels passed almost within a stone's throw of her. she could see the st. george's cross flying at the fore of the largest ship. that was the admiral's flag--that was the flag of admiral prince philip d'avranche, duc de bercy. she felt her heart stand still suddenly, and with a tremor, as of fear, she gathered her child close to her. "what is all those ships, maman?" asked the child. "they are ships to defend jersey," she said, watching the imperturbable and its flotilla range on. "will they affend us, maman?" "perhaps-at the last," she said. chapter xxxvi off grouville bay lay the squadron of the jersey station. the st. george's cross was flying at the fore of the imperturbable, and on every ship of the fleet the white ensign flapped in the morning wind. the wooden-walled three-decked flag-ship, with her 32-pounders, and six hundred men, was not less picturesque and was more important than the castle of mont orgueil near by, standing over two hundred feet above the level of the sea: the home of philip d'avranche, duc de bercy, and the comtesse chantavoine, now known to the world as the duchesse de bercy. the comtesse had arrived in the island almost simultaneously with philip, although he had urged her to remain at the ducal palace of bercy. but the duchy of bercy was in hard case. when the imbecile duke leopold john died and philip succeeded, the neutrality of bercy had been proclaimed, but this neutrality had since been violated, and there was danger at once from the incursions of the austrians and the ravages of the french troops. in philip's absence the valiant governor-general of the duchy, aided by the influence and courage of the comtesse chantavoine, had thus far saved it from dismemberment, in spite of attempted betrayals by damour the intendant, who still remained philip's enemy. but when the marquis grandjon-larisse, the uncle of the comtesse, died, her cousin, general grandjon-larisse of the republican army--whose word with dalbarade had secured philip's release years before for her own safety, first urged and then commanded her temporary absence from the duchy. so far he had been able to protect it from the fury of the republicans and the secret treachery of the jacobins. but a time of great peril was now at hand. under these anxieties and the lack of other inspiration than duty, her health had failed, and at last she obeyed her cousin, joining philip at the castle of mont orgueil. more than a year had passed since she had seen him, but there was no emotion, no ardour in their present greeting. from the first there had been nothing to link them together. she had married, hoping that she might love thereafter; he in choler and bitterness, and in the stress of a desperate ambition. he had avoided the marriage so long as he might, in hope of preventing it until the duke should die, but with the irony of fate the expected death had come two hours after the ceremony. then, shortly afterwards, came the death of the imbecile leopold john; and philip found himself the duc de bercy, and within a year, by reason of a splendid victory for the imperturbable, an admiral. truth to tell, in this battle he had fought for victory for his ship and a fall for himself: for the fruit he had plucked was turning to dust and ashes. he was haunted by the memory of a wronged woman, as she herself had foretold. death, with the burial of private dishonour under the roses of public victory--that had come to be his desire. but he had found that death is wilful and chooseth her own time; that she may be lured, but she will not come with shouting. so he had stoically accepted his fate, and could even smile with a bitter cynicism when ordered to proceed to the coast of jersey, where collision with a french squadron was deemed certain. now, he was again brought face to face with his past; with the imminent memory of guida landresse de landresse. where was guida now? what had happened to her? he dared not ask, and none told him. whichever way he turned--night or day--her face haunted him. looking out from the windows of mont orgueil castle, or from the deck of the imperturbable, he could see--and he could scarce choose but see--the lonely ecrehos. there, with a wild eloquence, he had made a girl believe he loved her, and had taken the first step in the path which should have led to true happiness and honour. from this good path he had violently swerved--and now? from all that could be seen, however, the world went very well with him. he was the centre of authority. almost any morning one might have seen a boat shoot out from below the castle wall, carrying a flag with the blue ball of a vice-admiral of the white in the canton, and as the admiral himself stepped upon the deck of the imperturbable between saluting guards, across the water came a gay march played in his honour. jersey herself was elate, eager to welcome one of her own sons risen to such high estate. when, the very day after his arrival, he passed through the vier marchi on his way to visit the lieutenant-governor, the redrobed jurats impulsively turned out to greet him. they were ready to prove that memory is a matter of will and cultivation. there is no curtain so opaque as that which drops between the mind of man and the thing it is advantageous to forget. but how closely does the ear of self-service listen for the footfall of a most distant memory, when to do so is to share even a reflected glory! a week had gone since philip had landed on the island. memories pursued him. if he came by the shore of st. clement's bay, he saw the spot where he had stood with her the evening he married her, and she said to him: "philip, i wonder what we will think of this day a year from now!...... to-day is everything to you, but to-morrow is very much to me." he remembered shoreham sitting upon the cromlech above singing the legend of the gui-l'annee--and shoreham was lying now a hundred fathoms deep. as he walked through the vier marchi with his officers, there flashed before his eyes the scene of sixteen years ago, when, through the grime and havoc of battle, he had run to save guida from the scimitar of the garish turk. walking through the place du vier prison, he recalled the morning when he had rescued ranulph from the hands of the mob. where was ranulph now? if he had but known it, that very morning as he passed mattingley's house ranulph had looked down at him with infinite scorn and loathing--but with triumph too, for the chevalier had just shown him a certain page in a certain parish-register long lost, left with him by carterette mattingley. philip knew naught of ranulph save the story babbled by the islanders. he cared to hear of no one but guida, and who was now to mention her name to him? it was long--so long since he had seen her face. how many years ago was it? only five, and yet it seemed twenty. he was a boy then; now his hair was streaked with grey. he was lighthearted then, and he was still buoyant with his fellows, still alert and vigorous, quick of speech and keen of humour--but only before the world. in his own home he was fitful of mood, impatient of the grave, meditative look of his wife, of her resolute tenacity of thought and purpose, of her unvarying evenness of mood, through which no warmth played. it seemed to him that if she had defied him--given him petulance for petulance, impatience for impatience, it would have been easier to bear. if--if he could only read behind those passionless eyes, that clear, unwrinkled forehead! but he knew her no better now than he did the day he married her. unwittingly she chilled him, and he felt he had no right to complain, for he had done her the greatest wrong which can be done a woman. whatever chanced, guida was still his wife; and there was in him yet the strain of calvinistic morality of the island race that bred him. he had shrunk from coming here, but it had been far worse than he had looked for. one day, in a nervous, bitter moment, after an impatient hour with the comtesse, he had said: "can you--can you not speak? can you not tell me what you think?" she had answered quietly: "it would do no good. you would not understand. i know you in some ways better than you know yourself. i cannot tell what it is, but there is something wrong in your nature, something that poisons your life. and not myself only has felt that. i never told you--but you remember the day the old duke died, the day we were married? you had gone from the room a moment. the duke beckoned me to him, and whispered 'don't be afraid--don't be afraid--' and then he died. that meant that he was afraid, that death had cleared his sight as to you in some way. he was afraid--of what? and i have been afraid--of what? i do not know. things have not gone well somehow. you are strong, you are brave, and i come of a family that have been strong and brave. we ought to be near: yet, yet we are lonely and far apart, and we shall never be nearer or less lonely. that i know." to this he had made no reply and this anger vanished. something in her words had ruled him to her own calmness, and at that moment he had the first flash of understanding of her nature and its true relation to his own. passing through the rue d'egypte this day he met dormy jamais. forgetful of everything save that this quaint foolish figure had interested him when a boy, he called him by name; but dormy jamais swerved away, eyeing him askance. at that instant he saw jean touzel standing in the doorway of his house. a wave of remorseful feeling rushed over him. he could wait no longer: he would ask jean touzel and his wife about guida. he instantly bethought him of an excuse for the visit. his squadron needed another pilot; he would approach jean in the matter. bidding his flag-lieutenant go on to elizabeth castle whither they were bound, and await him there, he crossed over to jean. by the time he reached the doorway, however, jean had retreated to the veille by the chimney behind maitresse aimable, who sat in a great stave-chair mending a net. philip knocked and stepped inside. when mattresse aimable saw who it was she was so startled that she dropped her work, and made vague clutches to recover it. stooping, however, was a great effort for her. philip instantly stepped forward and picked up the net. politely handing it to her, he said: "ah, maitresse aimable, it is as if you had never stirred all these years!" then turning to her husband "i have come looking for a good pilot, jean." mattresse aimable had at first flushed to a purple, had afterwards gone pale, then recovered herself, and now returned philip's look with a downright steadiness. like jean, she knew well enough he had not come for a pilot--that was not the business of a prince admiral. she did not even rise. philip might be whatever the world chose to call him, but her house was her own, and he had come uninvited, and he was unwelcome. she kept her seat, but her fat head inclined once in greeting, and she waited for him to speak again. she knew why he had come; and somehow the steady look in these slow, brown eyes, and the blinking glance behind jean's brass-rimmed spectacles, disconcerted philip. here were people who knew the truth about him, knew the sort of man he really was. these poor folk who had had nothing of the world but what they earned, they would never hang on any prince's favours. he read the situation rightly. the penalties of his life were teaching him a discernment which could never have come to him through good fortune alone. having at last discovered his real self a little, he was in the way of knowing others. "may i shut the door?" he asked quietly. jean nodded. closing it he turned to them again. "since my return i have heard naught concerning mademoiselle landresse," he said. "i want to ask you about her now. does she still live in the place du vier prison?" both jean and aimable shook their heads. they had spoken no word since his entrance. "she--she is not dead?" he asked. they shook their heads again. "her grandfather"--he paused--"is he living?" once more they shook their heads in negation. "where is mademoiselle?" he asked, sick at heart. jean looked at his wife; neither moved nor answered. "where does she live?" urged philip. still there was no motion, no reply. "you might as well tell me." his tone was half pleading, half angry--little like a sovereign duke, very like a man in trouble. "you must know i shall find out from some one else, then," he continued. "but it is better for you to tell me. i mean her no harm, and i would rather know about her from her friends." he took off his hat now. something in the dignity of these two honest folk rebuked the pride of place and spirit in him. as plainly as though heralds had proclaimed it, he understood that these two knew the abatements on the shield of his honour-argent, a plain point tenne, due to him "that tells lyes to his prince or general," and argent, a gore sinister tenne, due for flying from his colours. maitresse aimable turned and looked towards jean, but jean turned away his head. then she did not hesitate. the voice so oft eluding her will responded readily now. anger--plain primitive rage-possessed her. she had had no child, but as the years had passed all the love that might have been given to her own was bestowed upon guida, and in that mind she spoke. "o my grief, to think you have come here-you!" she burst forth. "you steal the best heart in the world--there is none like her, nannin-gia. you promise her, you break her life, you spoil her, and then you fly away --ah coward you! man pethe benin, was there ever such a man like you! if my jean there had done a thing as that i would sink him in the sea-he would sink himself, je me crais! but you come back here, o my mother of god, you come back here with your sword, with your crown-ugh, it is like a black cat in heaven--you!" she got to her feet more nimbly than she had ever done in her life, and the floor seemed to heave as she came towards philip. "you speak to me with soft words," she said harshly--"but you shall have the good hard truth from me. you want to know now where she is--i ask where you have been these five years? your voice it tremble when you speak of her now. oh ho! it has been nice and quiet these five years. the grand pethe of her drop dead in his chair when he know. the world turn against her, make light of her, when they know. all alone--she is all alone, but for one fat old fool like me. she bear all the shame, all the pain, for the crime of you. all alone she take her child and go on to the rock of plemont to live these five years. but you, you go and get a crown and be amiral and marry a grande comtesse--marry, oh, je crais ben! this is no world for such men like you. you come to my house, to the house of jean touzel, to ask this and that--well, you have the truth of god, ba su! no good will come to you in the end, nannin-gia! when you go to die, you will think and think and think of that beautiful guida landresse; you will think and think of the heart you kill, and you will call, and she will not come. you will call till your throat rattle, but she will not come, and the child of sorrow you give her will not come--no, bidemme! e'fin, the door you shut you can open now, and you can go from the house of jean touzel. it belong to the wife of an honest man-maint'nant!" in the moment's silence that ensued, jean took a step forward. "ma femme, ma bonne femme!" he said with a shaking voice. then he pointed to the door. humiliated, overwhelmed by the words of the woman, philip turned mechanically towards the door without a word, and his fingers fumbled for the latch, for a mist was before his eyes. with a great effort he recovered himself, and passed slowly out into the rue d'egypte. "a child--a child!" he said brokenly. "guida's child--my god! and i --have never--known. plemont--plemont, she is at plemont!" he shuddered. "guida's child--and mine," he kept saying to himself, as in a painful dream he passed on to the shore. in the little fisherman's cottage he had left, a fat old woman sat sobbing in the great chair made of barrel-staves, and a man, stooping, kissed her twice on the cheek--the first time in fifteen years. and then she both laughed and cried. chapter xxxvii guida sat by the fire sewing, biribi the dog at her feet. a little distance away, to the right of the chimney, lay guilbert asleep. twice she lowered the work to her lap to look at the child, the reflected light of the fire playing on his face. stretching out her hand, she touched him, and then she smiled. hers was an all-devouring love; the child was her whole life; her own present or future was as nothing; she was but fuel for the fire of his existence. a storm was raging outside. the sea roared in upon plemont and grosnez, battering the rocks in futile agony. a hoarse nor'-easter ranged across the tiger's head in helpless fury: a night of awe to inland folk, and of danger to seafarers. to guida, who was both of the sea and of the land, fearless as to either, it was neither terrible nor desolate to be alone with the storm. storm was but power unshackled, and power she loved and understood. she had lived so long in close commerce with storm and sea that something of their keen force had entered into her, and she was kin with them. each wind to her was intimate as a friend, each rock and cave familiar as her hearthstone; and the ungoverned ocean spoke in terms intelligible. so heavy was the surf that now and then the spray of some foiled wave broke on the roof, but she only nodded at that, as though the sea were calling her to come forth, tapping on her rooftree in joyous greeting. but suddenly she started and bent her head. it seemed as if her whole body were hearkening. now she rose quickly to her feet, dropped her work upon the table near by, and rested herself against it, still listening. she was sure she heard a horse's hoofs. turning swiftly, she drew the curtain of the bed before her sleeping child, and then stood quiet waiting--waiting. her hand went to her heart once as though its fierce throbbing hurt her. plainly as though she could look through these stone walls into clear sunlight, she saw some one dismount, and she heard a voice. the door of the but was unlocked and unbarred. if she feared, it was easy to shoot the bolt and lock the door, to drop the bar across the little window, and be safe and secure. but no bodily fear possessed her-only that terror of the spirit when its great trial comes suddenly and it shrinks back, though the mind be of faultless courage. she waited. there came a knocking at the door. she did not move from where she stood. "come in," she said. she was composed and resolute now. the latch clicked, the door opened, and a cloaked figure entered, the shriek of the storm behind. the door closed again. the intruder took a step forward, his hat came off, the cloak was loosed and dropped upon the floor. guida's premonition had been right: it was philip. she did not speak. a stone could have been no colder as she stood in the light of the fire, her face still and strong, the eyes darkling, luminous. there was on her the dignity of the fearless, the pure in heart. "guida!" philip said, and took a step nearer, and paused. he was haggard, he had the look of one who had come upon a desperate errand. when she did not answer he said pleadingly: "guida, won't you speak to me?" "the duc de bercy chooses a strange hour for his visit," she said quietly. "but see," he answered hurriedly; "what i have to say to you--" he paused, as though to choose the thing he should say first. "you can say nothing i need hear," she answered, looking him steadily in the eyes. "ah, guida," he cried, disconcerted by her cold composure, "for god's sake listen to me! to-night we have to face our fate. to-night you have to say--" "fate was faced long ago. i have nothing to say." "guida, i have repented of all. i have come now only to speak honestly of the wrong i did you. i have come to--" scorn sharpened her words, though she spoke calmly: "you have forced yourself upon a woman's presence--and at this hour!" "i chose the only hour possible," he answered quickly. "guida, the past cannot be changed, but we have the present and the future still. i have not come to justify myself, but to find a way to atone." "no atonement is possible." "you cannot deny me the right to confess to you that--" "to you denial should not seem hard usage," she answered slowly, "and confession should have witnesses--" she paused suggestively. the imputation that he of all men had the least right to resent denial; that, dishonest still, he was willing to justify her privately though not publicly; that repentance should have been open to the world--it all stung him. he threw out his hands in a gesture of protest. "as many witnesses as you will, but not now, not this hour, after all these years. will you not at least listen to me, and then judge and act? will you not hear me, guida?" she had not yet even stirred. now that it had come, this scene was all so different from what she might have imagined. but she spoke out of a merciless understanding, an unchangeable honesty. her words came clear and pitiless: "if you will speak to the point and without a useless emotion, i will try to listen. common kindness should have prevented this intrusion-by you!" every word she said was like a whip-lash across his face. a devilish light leapt into his eye, but it faded as quickly as it came. "after to-night, to the public what you will," he repeated with dogged persistence, "but it was right we should speak alone to each other at least this once before the open end. i did you wrong, yet i did not mean to ruin your life, and you should know that. i ought not to have married you secretly; i acknowledge that. but i loved you--" she shook her head, and with a smile of pitying disdain--he could so little see the real truth, his real misdemeanour--she said: "oh no, never--never! you were not capable of love; you never knew what it means. from the first you were too untrue ever to love a woman. there was a great fire of emotion, you saw shadows on the wall, and you fell in love with them. that was all." "i tell you that i loved you," he answered with passionate energy. "but as you will. let it be that it was not real love: at least it was all there was in me to give. i never meant to desert you. i never meant to disavow our marriage. i denied you, you will say. i did. in the light of what came after, it was dishonourable--i grant that; but i did it at a crisis and for the fulfilment of a great ambition--and as much for you as for me." "that was the least of your evil work. but how little you know what true people think or feel!" she answered with a kind of pain in her voice, for she felt that such a nature could never even realise its own enormities. well, since it had gone so far she would speak openly, though it hurt her sense of self-respect. "for that matter, do you think that i or any good woman would have had place or power, been princess or duchess, at the price? what sort of mind have you?" she looked him straight in the eyes. "put it in the clear light of right and wrong, it was knavery. you--you talk of not meaning to do me harm. you were never capable of doing me good. it was not in you. from first to last you are untrue. were it otherwise, were you not from first to last unworthy, would you have--but no, your worst crime need not be judged here. yet had you one spark of worthiness would you have made a mock marriage--it is no more--with the comtesse chantavoine? no matter what i said or what i did in anger, or contempt of you, had you been an honest man you would not have so ruined another life. marriage, alas! you have wronged the comtesse worse than you have wronged me. one day i shall be righted, but what can you say or do to right her wrongs?" her voice had now a piercing indignation and force. "yes, philip d'avranche, it is as i say, justice will come to me. the world turned against me because of you; i have been shamed and disgraced. for years i have suffered in silence. but i have waited without fear for the end. god is with me. he is stronger than fortune or fate. he has brought you to jersey once more, to right my wrongs, mine and my child's." she saw his eyes flash to the little curtained bed. they both stood silent and still. he could hear the child breathing. his blood quickened. an impulse seized him. he took a step towards the bed, as though to draw the curtain, but she quickly moved between. "never," she said in a low stern tone; "no touch of yours for my guilbert--for my son! every minute of his life has been mine. he is mine--all mine--and so he shall remain. you who gambled with the name, the fame, the very soul of your wife, you shall not have one breath of her child's life." it was as if the outward action of life was suspended in them for a moment, and then came the battle of two strong spirits: the struggle of fretful and indulged egotism, the impulse of a vigorous temperament, against a deep moral force, a high purity of mind and conscience, and the invincible love of the mother for the child. time, bitterness, and power had hardened philip's mind, and his long-restrained emotions, breaking loose now, made him a passionate and wilful figure. his force lay in the very unruliness of his spirit, hers in the perfect command of her moods and emotions. well equipped by the thoughts and sufferings of five long years, her spirit was trained to meet this onset with fiery wisdom. they were like two armies watching each other across a narrow stream, between one conflict and another. for a minute they stood at gaze. the only sounds in the room were the whirring of the fire in the chimney and the child's breathing. at last philip's intemperate self-will gave way. there was no withstanding that cold, still face, that unwavering eye. only brutality could go further. the nobility of her nature, her inflexible straight-forwardness came upon him with overwhelming force. dressed in molleton, with no adornment save the glow of a perfect health, she seemed at this moment, as on the ecrehos, the one being on earth worth living and caring for. what had he got for all the wrong he had done her? nothing. come what might, there was one thing that he could yet do, and even as the thought possessed him he spoke. "guida," he said with rushing emotion, "it is not too late. forgive the past-the wrong of it, the shame of it. you are my wife; nothing can undo that. the other woman--she is nothing to me. if we part and never meet again she will suffer no more than she suffers to go on with me. she has never loved me, nor i her. ambition did it all, and of ambition god knows i have had enough! let me proclaim our marriage, let me come back to you. then, happen what will, for the rest of our lives i will try to atone for the wrong i did you. i want you, i want our child. i want to win your love again. i can't wipe out what i have done, but i can put you right before the world, i can prove to you that i set you above place and ambition. if you shrink from doing it for me, do it"--he glanced towards the bed--"do it for our child. to-morrow--to-morrow it shall be, if you will forgive. to-morrow let us start again--guida--guida!" she did not answer at once; but at last she said "giving up place and ambition would prove nothing now. it is easy to repent when our pleasures have palled. i told you in a letter four years ago that your protests came too late. they are always too late. with a nature like yours nothing is sure or lasting. everything changes with the mood. it is different with me: i speak only what i truly mean. believe me, for i tell you the truth, you are a man that a woman could forget but could never forgive. as a prince you are much better than as a plain man, for princes may do what other men may not. it is their way to take all and give nothing. you should have been born a prince, then all your actions would have seemed natural. yet now you must remain a prince, for what you got at such a price to others you must pay for. you say you would come down from your high place, you would give up your worldly honours, for me. what madness! you are not the kind of man with whom a woman could trust herself in the troubles and changes of life. laying all else aside, if i would have had naught of your honours and your duchy long ago, do you think i would now share a disgrace from which you could never rise? for in my heart i feel that this remorse is but caprice. it is to-day; it may not--will not--be tomorrow." "you are wrong, you are wrong. i am honest with you now," he broke in. "no," she answered coldly, "it is not in you to be honest. your words have no ring of truth in my ears, for the note is the same as i heard once upon the ecrehos. i was a young girl then and i believed; i am a woman now, and i should still disbelieve though all the world were on your side to declare me wrong. i tell you"--her voice rose again, it seemed to catch the note of freedom and strength of the storm without-"i tell you, i will still live as my heart and conscience prompt me. the course i have set for myself i will follow; the life i entered upon when my child was born i will not leave. no word you have said has made my heart beat faster. you and i can never have anything to say to each other in this life, beyond"--her voice changed, she paused--"beyond one thing--" going to the bed where the child lay, she drew the curtain softly, and pointing, she said: "there is my child. i have set my life to the one task, to keep him to myself, and yet to win for him the heritage of the dukedom of bercy. you shall yet pay to him the price of your wrong-doing." she drew back slightly so that he could see the child lying with its rosy face half buried in its pillow, the little hand lying like a flower upon the coverlet. once more with a passionate exclamation he moved nearer to the child. "no farther!" she said, stepping before him. when she saw the wild impulse in his face to thrust her aside, she added: "it is only the shameless coward that strikes the dead. you had a wife-guida d'avranche, but guida d'avranche is dead. there only lives the mother of this child, guida landresse de landresse." she looked at him with scorn, almost with hatred. had he touched her-but she would rather pity than loathe! her words roused all the devilry in him. the face of the child had sent him mad. "by heaven, i will have the child--i will have the child!" he broke out harshly. "you shall not treat me like a dog. you know well i would have kept you as my wife, but your narrow pride, your unjust anger threw me over. you have wronged me. i tell you you have wronged me, for you held the secret of the child from me all these years." "the whole world knew!" she exclaimed indignantly. "i will break your pride," he said, incensed and unable to command himself. "mark you, i will break your pride. and i will have my child too!" "establish to the world your right to him," she answered keenly. "you have the right to acknowledge him, but the possession shall be mine." he was the picture of impotent anger and despair. it was the irony of penalty that the one person in the world who could really sting him was this unacknowledged, almost unknown woman. she was the only human being that had power to shatter his egotism and resolve him into the common elements of a base manhood. of little avail his eloquence now! he had cajoled a sovereign dukedom out of an aged and fatuous prince; he had cajoled a wife, who yet was no wife, from among the highest of a royal court; he had cajoled success from fate by a valour informed with vanity and ambition; years ago, with eloquent arts he had cajoled a young girl into a secret marriage--but he could no longer cajole the woman who was his one true wife. she knew him through and through. he was so wild with rage he could almost have killed her as she stood there, one hand stretched out to protect the child, the other pointing to the door. he seized his hat and cloak and laid his hand upon the latch, then suddenly turned to her. a dark project came to him. he himself could not prevail with her; but he would reach her yet, through the child. if the child were in his hands, she would come to him. "remember, i will have the child," he said, his face black with evil purpose. she did not deign reply, but stood fearless and still, as, throwing open the door, he rushed out into the night. she listened until she heard his horse's hoofs upon the rocky upland. then she went to the door, locked it, and barred it. turning, she ran with a cry as of hungry love to the little bed. crushing the child to her bosom, she buried her face in his brown curls. "my son, my own, own son!" she said. chapter xxxviii if at times it would seem that nature's disposition of the events of a life or a series of lives is illogical, at others she would seem to play them with an irresistible logic--loosing them, as it were, in a trackless forest of experience, and in some dramatic hour, by an inevitable attraction, drawing them back again to a destiny fulfilled. in this latter way did she seem to lay her hand upon the lives of philip d'avranche and guida landresse. at the time that elie mattingley, in jersey, was awaiting hanging on the mont es pendus, and writing his letter to carterette concerning the stolen book of church records, in a town of brittany the reverend lorenzo dow lay dying. the army of the vendee, under detricand comte de tournay, had made a last dash at a small town held by a section of the republican army, and captured it. on the prisons being opened, detricand had discovered in a vile dungeon the sometime curate of st. michael's church in jersey. when they entered on him, wasted and ragged he lay asleep on his bed of rotten straw, his fingers between the leaves of a book of meditations. captured five years before and forgotten alike by the english and french governments, he had apathetically pined and starved to these last days of his life. recognising him, detricand carried him in his strong arms to his own tent. for many hours the helpless man lay insensible, but at last the flickering spirit struggled back to light for a little space. when first conscious of his surroundings, the poor captive felt tremblingly in the pocket of his tattered vest. not finding what he searched for, he half started up. detricand hastened forward with a black leather-covered book in his hand. mr. dow's thin trembling fingers clutched eagerly--it was his only passion--at this journal of his life. as his grasp closed on it, he recognised detricand, and at the same time he saw the cross and heart of the vendee on his coat. a victorious little laugh struggled in his throat. "the lord hath triumphed gloriously--i could drink some wine, monsieur," he added in the same quaint clerical monotone. having drunk the wine he lay back murmuring thanks and satisfaction, his eyes closed. presently they opened. he nodded at detricand. "i have not tasted wine these five years," he said; then added, "you--you took too much wine in jersey, did you not, monsieur? i used to say an office for you every litany day, which was of a friday." his eyes again caught the cross and heart on detricand's coat, and they lighted up a little. "the lord hath triumphed gloriously," he repeated, and added irrelevantly, "i suppose you are almost a captain now?" "a general--almost," said detricand with gentle humour. at that moment an orderly appeared at the tent-door, bearing a letter for detricand. "from general grandjon-larisse of the republican army, your highness," said the orderly, handing the letter. "the messenger awaits an answer." as detricand hastily read, a look of astonishment crossed over his face, and his brows gathered in perplexity. after a minute's silence he said to the orderly: "i will send a reply to-morrow." "yes, your highness." the orderly saluted and retired. mr. dow half raised himself on his couch, and the fevered eyes swallowed detricand. "you--you are a prince, monsieur?" he said. detricand glanced up from the letter he was reading again, a grave and troubled look on his face. "prince of vaufontaine they call me, but, as you know, i am only a vagabond turned soldier," he said. the dying man smiled to himself,-a smile of the sweetest vanity this side of death,--for it seemed to him that the lord had granted him this brand from the burning, and in supreme satisfaction, he whispered: "i used to say an office for you every litany--which was a friday, and twice, i remember, on two saints' days." suddenly another thought came to him, and his lips moved--he was murmuring to himself. he would leave a goodly legacy to the captive of his prayers. taking the leather-covered journal of his life in both hands, he held it out. "highness, highness--" said he. death was breaking the voice in his throat. detricand stooped and ran an arm round his shoulder, but raising himself up mr. dow gently pushed him back. the strength of his supreme hour was on him. "highness," said he, "i give you the book of five years of my life--not of its every day, but of its moments, its great days. read it," he added, "read it wisely. your own name is in it--with the first time i said an office for you." his breath failed him, he fell back, and lay quiet for several minutes. "you used to take too much wine," he said half wildly, starting up again. "permit me your hand, highness." detricand dropped on his knee and took the wasted hand. mr. dow's eyes were glazing fast. with a last effort he spoke--his voice like a squeaking wind in a pipe: "the lord hath triumphed gloriously--" and he leaned forward to kiss detricand's hand. but death intervened, and his lips fell instead upon the red cross on detricand's breast, as he sank forward lifeless. that night, after lorenzo dow was laid in his grave, detricand read the little black leather-covered journal bequeathed to him. of the years of his captivity the records were few; the book was chiefly concerned with his career in jersey. detricand read page after page, more often with a smile than not; yet it was the smile of one who knew life and would scarce misunderstand the eccentric and honest soul of the reverend lorenzo dow. suddenly, however, he started, for he came upon these lines: i have, in great privacy and with halting of spirit, married, this twenty-third of january, mr. philip d'avranche of his majesty's ship "narcissus," and mistress guida landresse de landresse, both of this island of jersey; by special license of the bishop of winchester. to this was added in comment: unchurchmanlike, and most irregular. but the young gentleman's tongue is gifted, and he pressed his cause heartily. also mr. shoreham of the narcissus--"mad shoreham of galway" his father was called--i knew him--added his voice to the request also. troubled in conscience thereby, yet i did marry the twain gladly, for i think a worthier maid never lived than this same mistress guida landresse de landresse, of the ancient family of the de mauprats. yet i like not secrecy, though it be but for a month or two months--on my vow, i like it not for one hour. note: at leisure read of the family history of the de mauprats and the d'avranches. n.: no more secret marriages nor special licenses--most uncanonical privileges! n.: for ease of conscience write to his grace at lambeth upon the point. detricand sprang to his feet. so this was the truth about philip d'avranche, about guida, alas! he paced the tent, his brain in a whirl. stopping at last, he took from his pocket the letter received that afternoon from general grandjonlarisse, and read it through again hurriedly. it proposed a truce, and a meeting with himself at a village near, for conference upon the surrender of detricand's small army. "a bitter end to all our fighting," said detricand aloud at last. "but he is right. it is now a mere waste of life. i know my course. . . . even to-night," he added, "it shall be to-night." two hours later detricand, prince of vaufontaine, was closeted with general grandjon-larisse at a village half-way between the republican army and the broken bands of the vendee. as lads detricand and grandjon-larisse had known each other well. but since the war began grandjon-larisse had gone one way, and he had gone the other, bitter enemies in principle but friendly enough at heart. they had not seen each other since the year before rullecour's invasion of jersey. "i had hoped to see you by sunset, monseigneur," said grandjon-larisse after they had exchanged greetings. "it is through a melancholy chance you see me at all," replied detricand heavily. "to what piteous accident am i indebted?" grandjon-larisse replied in an acid tone, for war had given his temper an edge. "were not my reasons for surrender sound? i eschewed eloquence--i gave you facts." detricand shook his head, but did not reply at once. his brow was clouded. "let me speak fully and bluntly now," grandjon-larisse went on. "you will not shrink from plain truths, i know. we were friends ere you went adventuring with rullecour. we are soldiers too; and you will understand i meant no bragging in my letter." he raised his brows inquiringly, and detricand inclined his head in assent. without more ado, grandjon-larisse laid a map on the table. "this will help us," he said briefly, then added: "look you, prince, when war began the game was all with you. at thouars here"--his words followed his finger--"at fontenay, at saumur, at torfou, at coron, at chateaugonthier, at pontorson, at dol, at antrain, you had us by the heels. victory was ours once to your thrice. your blood was up. you had great men--great men," he repeated politely. detricand bowed. "but see how all is changed," continued the other. "see: by this forest of vesins de la rochejaquelein fell. at chollet"-his finger touched another point--"bonchamp died, and here d'elbee and lescure were mortally wounded. at angers stofflet was sent to his account, and charette paid the price at nantes." he held up his fingers. "one--two--three--four--five--six great men gone!" he paused, took a step away from the table, and came back again. once more he dropped his finger on the map. "tinteniac is gone, and at quiberon peninsula your friend sombreuil was slain. and look you here," he added in a lower voice, "at laval my old friend the prince of talmont was executed at his own chateau, where i had spent many an hour with him." detricand's eyes flashed fire. "why then permit the murder, monsieur le general?" grandjon-larisse started, his voice became hard at once. "it is not a question of talmont, or of you, or of me, monseigneur. it is not a question of friendship, not even of father, or brother, or son--but of france." "and of god and the king," said detricand quickly. grandjon-larisse shrugged his shoulders. "we see with different eyes. we think with different minds," and he stooped over the map again. "we feel with different hearts," said detricand. "there is the difference between us--between your cause and mine. you are all for logic and perfection in government, and to get it you go mad, and france is made a shambles--" "war is cruelty, and none can make it gentle," interrupted grandjonlarisse. he turned to the map once more. "and see, monseigneur, here at la vie your uncle the prince of vaufontaine died, leaving you his name and a burden of hopeless war. now count them all over--de la rochejaquelein, bonchamp, d'elbee, lescure, stofflet, charette, talmont, tinteniac, sombreuil, vaufontaine--they are all gone, your great men. and who of chieftains and armies are left? detricand of vaufontaine and a few brave men--no more. believe me, monseigneur, your game is hopeless--by your grace, one moment still," he added, as detricand made an impatient gesture. "hoche destroyed your army and subdued the country two years ago. you broke out again, and hoche and i have beaten you again. fight on, with your doomed followers--brave men i admit--and hoche will have no mercy. i can save your peasants if you will yield now. "we have had enough of blood. let us have peace. to proceed is certain death to all, and your cause worse lost. on my honour, monseigneur, i do this at some risk, in memory of old days. i have lost too many friends," he added in a lower voice. detricand was moved. "i thank you for this honest courtesy. i had almost misread your letter," he answered. "now i will speak freely. i had hoped to leave my bones in brittany. it was my will to fight to the last, with my doomed followers as you call them--comrades and lovers of france i say. and it was their wish to die with me. till this afternoon i had no other purpose. willing deaths ours, for i am persuaded, for every one of us that dies, a hundred men will rise up again and take revenge upon this red debauch of government!" "have a care," said grandjon-larisse with sudden anger, his hand dropping upon the handle of his sword. "i ask leave for plain beliefs as you asked leave for plain words. i must speak my mind, and i will say now that it has changed in this matter of fighting and surrender. i will tell you what has changed it," and detricand drew from his pocket lorenzo dow's journal. "it concerns both you and me." grandjon-larisse flashed a look of inquiry at him. "it concerns your cousin the comtesse chantavoine and philip d'avranche, who calls himself her husband and duc de bercy." he opened the journal, and handed it to grandjon-larisse. "read," he said. as grandjon-larisse read, an oath broke from him. "is this authentic, monseigneur?" he said in blank astonishment "and the woman still lives?" detricand told him all he knew, and added: "a plain duty awaits us both, monsieur le general. you are concerned for the comtesse chantavoine; i am concerned for the duchy of bercy and for this poor lady--this poor lady in jersey," he added. grandjon-larisse was white with rage. "the upstart! the english brigand!" he said between his teeth. "you see now," said detricand, "that though it was my will to die fighting your army in the last trench--" "alone, i fear," interjected grandjon-larisse with curt admiration. "my duty and my purpose go elsewhere," continued detricand. "they take me to jersey. and yours, monsieur?" grandjon-larisse beat his foot impatiently on the floor. "for the moment i cannot stir in this, though i would give my life to do so," he answered bitterly. "i am but now recalled to paris by the directory." he stopped short in his restless pacing and held out his hand. "we are at one," he said--"friends in this at least. command me when and how you will. whatever i can i will do, even at risk and peril. the english brigand!" he added bitterly. "but for this insult to my blood, to the noble chantavoine, he shall pay the price to me--yes, by the heel of god!" "i hope to be in jersey three days hence," said detricand. etext editor's bookmarks: it is easy to repent when our pleasures have palled kissed her twice on the cheek--the first time in fifteen years no news--no trouble war is cruelty, and none can make it gentle witchcraft and devil lore in the channel islands transcripts from the official records of the guernsey royal court, with an english translation and historical introduction. by john linwood pitts, _membre de la société des antiquaires de normandie._ _editor of "the patois poems of the channel islands;" "the sermon on the mount and the parable of the sower, in the franco-norman dialects of guernsey and sark," &c., &c._ thou shalt not suffer a witch to live. --exodus xxii, 18. [illustration] guernsey: guille-allès library, and thomas m. bichard, printer to the states. 1886. [_all rights reserved._] to edgar macculloch, esquire, f.s.a., london and normandy, and member of the folklore society, bailiff of guernsey, whose historical researches have tended so much to elucidate the time-honoured constitution and ancient customs of his native island, this brief record of one of the darkest chapters in its chequered annals is dedicated with sentiments of the highest respect and esteem. _venena magnum fas nefasque non valent convertere humanam vicem._ horace, epod. v. 87-8. foreword. in presenting to the public another little volume of the "guille-allès library series," it affords me much pleasure to acknowledge various kindnesses experienced during its preparation. from edgar macculloch, esq., f.s.a., bailiff of guernsey, i have received several valuable hints and suggestions bearing upon the subject; and also from f.j. jérémie, esq., m.a., jurat of the royal court. i am also particularly indebted to james gallienne, esq., her majesty's greffier, for his uniform kindness and courtesy in allowing the fullest access at all times to the archives under his care, not only in respect to the subject-matter of the present publication, but also in other historical researches which i have wished to make. i am equally obliged to mr. e.m. cohu and mr. h.j.v. torode, deputy-greffiers, and to mr. a. isemonger, bailiff's clerk, for various information and much ready help, which materially facilitated my investigations. all these gentlemen have my cordial acknowledgments and best thanks. j.l.p. guernsey, december, 1885. note.--the seal represented on the title page is that of the guernsey bailiwick. it was first granted by edward i. in the seventh year of his reign (1279), and bears the inscription: s. ballivie insule de gernereye. contents. _page_ dedication v. foreword vii. table of contents viii. introduction 1 witchcraft in guernsey 1 the witches' sabbath 2 the devil's ointment 2 three women burnt for heresy in guernsey 3 witchcraft in jersey 4 ordinance of the royal court 4 women hanged and burnt *4 mr. philippe le geyt's opinion 5 later superstitions 5 the pricking of witches *5 _sorcerots_, or witches' spells 6 torture of witches in guernsey *6 " " scotland 7 general persecution of witches *7 on the continent *7 in america *7 in england 8 in scotland 8 confessions of guernsey witches under torture 9 collette du mont 11 marie becquet 15 isabel becquet 16 depositions against collas becquet 22 note on the guernsey records 27 witchcraft trials in guernsey, 1563-1634 28 the story in brief of the guille-allès library 33 introduction. the witchcraft superstitions of the channel islands, sad as they were in their characteristics and results--as is abundantly evidenced by our judicial records--were but a part and parcel of that vast wave of unreasoning credulity which swept across the civilised world during the middle ages, and more or less affected every class of society, and all sorts and conditions of men. from the lists given in the following pages (pp. 28-32), it will be seen that in about seventy-one years, during the reigns of elizabeth, james i. and charles i., no fewer than seventy-eight persons--fifty-eight of them being women, and twenty of them men--were brought to trial for sorcery in guernsey alone. out of these unfortunate victims, three women and one man appear to have been burnt alive; twenty-four women and four men were hanged first and burnt afterwards; one woman was hanged for returning to the island after being banished; three women and one man were whipped and had each an ear cut off; twenty-two women and five men were banished from the island; while five women and three men had the good fortune to be acquitted. most of these accused persons were natives of guernsey, but mention is made of one woman from jersey, of three men and a woman from sark, and of a man from alderney. with regard to the gatherings at the so-called witches' sabbaths, there can be no doubt that--quite apart from the question of any diabolic presence at such meetings--very questionable assemblies of people did take place at intervals among the inhabitants of many countries. probably these gatherings first had their rise in the old pagan times, and were subsequently continued from force of habit, long after their real origin and significance had been forgotten. now, it would be very easy for these orgies to become associated--particularly in the then superstitious condition of the popular mind--with the actual bodily presence of the devil as one of the participants; while it is also not improbable that, in some cases at least, heartless and evil-minded persons worked upon the prevailing credulity to further their own nefarious purposes. our esteemed bailiff has offered a suggestion or two of considerable value on this point with regard to certain guernsey phases of the superstition. he thinks it highly probable that some of these deluded women were actually the dupes of unprincipled and designing men, who arrayed themselves in various disguises and then met their unfortunate victims by appointment. this idea is, indeed, borne out to a great extent by some of the particulars stated in the following confessions. for instance, some of the women assert that when they met the devil he was in the form of a dog, _but rather larger_; he always stood upon his hind legs--probably the man's feet; and, when he shook hands with them, his paw _felt like a hand_--doubtless it _was_ a hand. another suggestion of the bailiff's is also worth notice. it is that the black ointment so often mentioned as being rubbed on the bodies of the so-called witches, had a real existence, and may have been so compounded as to act as a narcotic or intoxicant, and produce a kind of extatic condition, just as the injection of certain drugs beneath the skin is known to do now. these suggestions are certainly worth consideration as offering reasonable solutions of at least two difficulties connected with those strange and lamentable superstitions. in one way or other there must have been some physical basis for beliefs so widely extended and so terribly real. imagination, of course, possesses a marvellous power of modification and exaggeration, but still it requires some germs of fact around which to crystallise. and it is to the discovery of the nature of such germs that a careful and conscientious observer will naturally turn his attention. * * * * * while speaking of the burning of witches in guernsey, i may also refer for a moment to the three women who, in queen mary's reign suffered death by fire, for heresy, because the reason of their condemnation and punishment has caused some controversy, and is often associated in the popular mind with a charge of sorcery. dr. heylin in his _survey_ (page 323), says:- katherine gowches, a poor woman of st. peter-port, in guernsey, was noted to be much absent from church, and her two daughters guilty of the same neglect. upon this they were presented before james amy, then dean of the island, who, finding in them that they held opinions contrary to those then allowed about the sacrament of the altar, pronounced them heretics, and condemned them to the fire. the poor women, on the other side, pleaded for themselves, that that doctrine had been taught them in the time of king edward; but if the queen was otherwise disposed, they were content to be of her religion. this was fair but it would not serve; for by the dean they were delivered unto helier gosselin, then bailiff, and by him unto the fire, july 18, 1556. one of these daughters, perotine massey, she was called, was at that time great with child; her husband, who was a minister, having in those dangerous times fled the island; in the middle of the flames and anguish of her torments, her belly broke in sunder, and her child, a goodly boy, fell down into the fire, but was presently snatched up by one w. house, one of the by-standers. upon the noise of this strange incident, the cruel bailiff returned command that the poor infant must be cast again into the flames, which was accordingly performed; and so that pretty babe was born a martyr, and added to the number of the holy innocents. parsons, the english jesuit, has asserted that the women were felons and were executed for theft, while other apologists have described them as prostitutes and generally infamous in character. the original sentences, however, which still exist at the guernsey _greffe_, and which i have examined, conclusively settle the question. both the ecclesiastical sentence, which is in latin, and the civil sentence, which is in french, distinctly describe the charge as one of _heresy_, and make no mention whatever of any other crime as having aught to do with the condemnation. it has been questioned too whether a child could be born alive under such circumstances. mr. f.b. tupper, in his _history of guernsey_ (page 151), says: "we are assured by competent surgical authority that the case is very possible"; and he further mentions that in a volume entitled _three visits to madagascar_, by the rev. wm. ellis, published in london, in 1858, a precisely similar case is stated to have occurred in that island. a native woman was burnt for becoming a convert to christianity, and her infant, born in the flames, was thrust into them again, and burnt also. lord tennyson refers to this guernsey martyrdom in his historical drama of _queen mary_ (act v. scene iv.). it is night-time in london; a light is burning in the royal palace; and he makes two "voices of the night" say:-_first_:--there's the queen's light. i hear she cannot live. _second_:--god curse her and her legate! gardiner burns already; but to pay them full in kind, the hottest hold in all the devil's den were but a sort of winter; sir, in guernsey, i watch'd a woman burn; and in her agony the mother came upon her--a child was born-and, sir, they hurl'd it back into the fire, that, being thus baptised in fire, the babe might be in fire for ever. ah, good neighbour, there should be something fierier than fire to yield them their deserts. with regard to witchcraft in jersey, i have not had an opportunity of personally examining the official records there. i find, however, some information on the subject, given by m. de la croix, in his _ville de st. hélier_, and _les etats de jersey_, upon which i have drawn. in the way of legislation, the guernsey court does not appear to have promulgated any penal statutes on the subject, being content to treat the crime as one against the common law of the island. in jersey on the contrary, witchcraft was specially legislated against at least on one occasion, for we find that on december 23rd, 1591, the royal court of that island passed an ordinance, of which the following is the purport:- forasmuch as many persons have hitherto committed and perpetrated great and grievous faults, as well against the honour and express commandment of god as to the great scandal of the christian faith, and of those who are charged with the administration of justice, by seeking assistance from witches and diviners in their ills and afflictions; and seeing that ignorance is no excuse for sin, and that no one can tell what vice and danger may ensue from such practices: this act declares that for the time to come everyone shall turn away from such iniquitous and diabolical practices, against which the law of god decrees the same punishments as against witches and enchanters themselves; and also in order that the divine vengeance may be averted, which on account of the impunity with which these crimes have been committed, now threatens those who have the repression of them in their hands. it is, therefore, strictly forbidden to all the inhabitants of this island to receive any counsel or assistance in their adversities from any witches or diviners, or anyone suspected of practicing sorcery, under pain of one month's imprisonment in the castle, on bread and water; and on their liberation they shall declare to the court the cause of such presumption, and according as this shall appear reasonable, shall be dealt with as the law of god directs. in 1562 two women were executed in jersey for witchcraft. one of them named _anne_, a native of st. brelade's, was burnt at st. helier's; and the other, _michelle la blanche_, expiated her crime at the gibbet of the hurets, in the parish of st. ouen, because criminals dwelling on the fief haubert de st. ouen, were, in accordance with custom, required to be executed within the boundaries of the said fief--seeing that it possessed a gallows-right--and their goods and lands became forfeited to the seigneur. in 1583 a rather curious point of law was raised in connection with a pending witch-trial at st. helier's. on the 15th of february in that year, a suspected witch named _marion corbel_, who had been imprisoned in the castle awaiting her trial, suddenly died. whereupon her relatives came forward and claimed to be heirs to her goods and chattles, seeing that she had not been convicted of the imputed crime, and urging that her death put an end to further criminal proceedings. the queen's procureur, however--it was in the reign of elizabeth--contended that death was no bar to the completion of the indictment, although it had effectually removed the criminal from the jurisdiction of the court, as far as punishment was concerned. the very reasonable claim of the deceased woman's relatives was therefore set aside, and the defunct of course being found guilty, her possessions reverted to the crown. again, forty years later, in 1623, an old woman of sixty, named _marie filleul_, daughter of _thomas filleul_, of the parish of st. clement's, was tried before a jury of twenty-four of her countrymen, and found guilty of the diabolical crime of sorcery. she was therefore hanged and burnt as a witch, and her goods were confiscated to the king [james i.], and to the seigneurs to whom they belonged. it may be interesting to note here the opinion of mr. philippe le geyt, the famous commentator on the constitution and laws of jersey, and one of the most enlightened men of his time, who for many years was lieutenant-bailiff of that island. he was born in 1635 and died in 1715, in his eighty-first year. in vol. i., page 42, of his works, there occurs a passage of which the following is a translation:- as holy scripture forbids us to allow witches to live, many persons have made it a matter of conscience and of religion to be severe in respect to such a crime. this principle has without doubt made many persons credulous. how often have purely accidental associations been taken as convincing proofs? how many innocent people have perished in the flames on the asserted testimony of supernatural circumstances? i will not say that there are no witches; but ever since the difficulty of convicting them has been recognized in the island, they all seem to have disappeared, as though the evidence of the times gone by had been but an illusion. this shows the instability of all things here below. coming down now to within a century ago, we find an article in the _gazette de jersey_, of saturday, march 10th, 1787, complaining of the great increase of wizards and witches in the island, as well as of their supposed victims. the writer says that the scenes then taking place were truly ridiculous, and he details a case that had just occurred at st. brelade's as corroborative of his assertion. it appears that a worthy householder there, had dreamed that a certain wizard appeared to him and ordered him to poison himself at a date which was specified, enjoining him above all things not to mention the incident to anyone. the poor silly fellow was dreadfully distressed, for he felt convinced that he would have to carry out the disagreeable command. at the same time he was quite unable to keep so momentous a secret to himself, and so he divulged the approaching tragedy to his wife. the good woman's despair was fully equal to his own, and after much anxious domestic counsel they determined to seek the good offices of a white witch (_une quéraude_), with the hope that her incantations might overcome the evil spells of the black witch who was causing all the mischief. this white witch prescribed lengthened fasting and other preparations for the great ordeal, and on a given night she and the bewitched householder, together with his wife and four or five trusty friends with drawn swords, shut themselves up in a room, and commenced their mysterious ceremonial. there was the boiling of occult herbs; the roasting of a beeve's heart stuck full of nails and pins; the reading of certain passages from the family bible; a mighty gesticulating with the swords, which were first thrust up the chimney to prevent the black witch from coming down, and anon were pointed earthward to hinder him from rising up; and so the ridiculous game went on. the only person who benefited was of course the imposter, who was paid for her services; while we may perhaps charitably hope that her dupes also were afterwards easier in their minds. the writer adds that many other persons besides this man at st. brelade's, had latterly believed themselves bewitched, and had consulted wizards, who were thus driving a profitable trade. * * * * * among the indications and symptoms of a witch, are reckoned various bodily marks and spots, said to be insensible to pain (page 20), inability to shed tears, &c. the pricking of witches was at one time a lucrative profession both in england and scotland, one of the most noted prickers being a wretched imposter named matthew hopkins who was sent for to all parts of the country to exercise his vile art. ralph gardner, in his _england's grievance discovered_ (1655), speaks also of two prickers, thomas shovel and cuthbert nicholson, who, in 1649 and 1650, were sent by the magistrates of newcastle-on-tyne, into scotland, there to confer with another very able man in that line and bring him back to newcastle. they were to have twenty shillings, but the scotchman three pounds, per head _of all they could convict_, and a free passage there and back. when these wretches got to any town--for they tried all the chief market-towns in the district--the crier used to go round with his bell, desiring "all people that would bring in any complaint against any woman for a witch, they should be sent for and tried by the person appointed." as many as thirty women were brought at once into the newcastle town-hall, stripped and pricked, and twenty-seven set aside as guilty. gardner continues:- the said witch-finder acquainted lieutenant-colonel hobson that he knew women whether they were witches or no by their looks; and when the said person was searching of a personable and good-like woman, the said colonel replied and said, 'surely this woman is none, and need not be tried;' but the scotchman said she was, for the town said she was, and therefore he would try her; and presently, in sight of all the people, laid her body naked to the waist, with her clothes over her head, by which fright and shame all her blood contracted into one part of her body, and then he ran a pin into her thigh, and then suddenly let her coats fall, and then demanded whether she had nothing of his in her body, but did not bleed? but she, being amazed, replied little. then he put his hands up her coats and pulled out the pin, and set her aside as a guilty person and child of the devil, and fell to try others, whom he made guilty. lieutenant-colonel hobson, perceiving the alteration of the aforesaid woman by her blood settling in her right parts, caused that woman to be brought again, and her clothes pulled up to her thigh, and required the scot to run the pin into the same place, and then it gushed out of blood, and the said scot cleared her, and said she was not a child of the devil. if this precious wretch had not been stopped he would have declared half the women in the north country to be witches. but the magistrates and the people got tired of him at last, and his imposture being discovered, he was hanged in scotland. at the gallows he confessed that he had been the death of 220 men and women in england and scotland, simply for the sake of the twenty shillings which he generally received as blood-money. * * * * * the belief in _sorcerots_, or witches' spells of a peculiar kind, mentioned in the _depositions_ (pages 22, 23, &c.) receives curious modern confirmation by a kindred superstition still current among the emancipated negroes of the united states. it was described in a letter on "voudouism in virginia" which appeared in the _new york tribune_, dated richmond, september 17, 1875. mr. moncure d. conway, in quoting this and commenting on it in his _demonology and devil-lore_ (vol. i. pages 68-69), says that it belongs to a class of superstitions generally kept close from the whites, as he believes, because of their purely african origin. mr. conway is, however, probably mistaken about the origin, seeing that the same belief prevailed in guernsey three centuries ago. the extract from the letter is as follows:- if an ignorant negro is smitten with a disease which he cannot comprehend, he often imagines himself the victim of witchcraft, and having no faith in "white folks' physic" for such ailments, must apply to one of these quacks. a physician residing near the city [richmond] was invited by such a one to witness his mode of procedure with a dropsical patient for whom the physician in question had occasionally charitably prescribed. curiosity led him to attend the seance, having previously informed the quack that since the case was in such hands he relinquished all connection with it. on the coverlet of the bed on which the sick man lay, was spread a quantity of bones, feathers, and other trash. the charlatan went through with a series of so-called conjurations, burned feathers, hair, and tiny fragments of wood in a charcoal furnace, and mumbled gibberish past the physician's comprehension. he then proceeded to rip open the pillows and bolsters, and took from them some queer conglomerations of feathers. these he said had caused all the trouble. sprinkling a whitish powder over them, he burnt them in his furnace. a black offensive smoke was produced, and he announced triumphantly that the evil influence was destroyed, and that the patient would surely get well. he died not many days later, believing, in common with his friends and relatives, that the conjurations of the "trick doctor" had failed to save him only because resorted to too late. from the above it is evident that the natural tendency of wool and feathers to felt and clog together, has been distorted, by widely different peoples, into an outward and visible sign that occult and malignant influences were at work. * * * * * as to the manner in which wizards and witches were put to the question in guernsey--that is tortured until they confessed whatever was required of them--mr. warburton, a herald and celebrated antiquary who wrote in the reign of charles ii., has given a circumstancial account, the correctness of which may be relied on. his _treatise on the history, laws and customs of the island of guernsey_, bears the date of 1682, and at page 126 he says:- by the law approved (_terrien_, lib. xii. cap. 37), torture is to be used, though not upon slight presumption, yet where the presumptive proof is strong, and much more when the proof is positive, and there wants only the confession of the party accused. yet this practice of torturing does not appear to have been used in the island for some ages, except in the case of witches, when it was too frequently applied, near a century since. the custom then was, when any person was supposed guilty of sorcery or witchcraft, they carried them to a place in the town called _la tour beauregard_, and there, tying their hands behind them by the two thumbs, drew them to a certain height with an engine made for that purpose, by which means sometimes their shoulders were turned round; and sometimes their thumbs torn off; but this fancy of witches has for some years been laid aside. it will be noticed in the subsequent _confessions_ of witches (page 11, &c.), that a number of colons (:) are inserted in the text where they would not be required as ordinary marks of punctuation. these correspond, however, to similar pauses in the original records, and evidently indicate the successive stages by which the story was wrung from the wretched victims. they are thus endowed with a sad and ghastly significance, which must be borne in mind when the confessions are read. it must also be remembered that these confessions were not usually made in the connected form in which they stand recorded, but were rather the result of leading questions put by the inquisitors, such as: how old were you when the devil first appeared to you? what form did he assume? what parish were you in? what were you doing? &c., &c. melancholy and revolting as all this is, yet the tortures made use of in guernsey were far from possessing those refinements of cruelty and that intensity of brutality which characterised the methods practiced in some other countries. let us take as a proof of this, the notable case of dr. fian and his associates, who were tried at edinburgh, in the year 1591. the evidence was of the usual ridiculous kind, and a confession--afterwards withdrawn--was extorted by the following blood-curdling barbarities, as is quoted by mr. c.k. sharpe, in his _historical account of the belief in witchcraft in scotland_:- the said doctor was taken and imprisoned, and used with the accustomed paine provided for those offences inflicted upon the rest, as is aforesaid. first, by thrawing of his head with a rope, whereat he would confesse nothing. secondly, he was perswaded by faire meanes to confesse his follies; but that would prevaile as little. lastly, hee was put to the most severe and cruell paine in the world, called the bootes, who, after he had received three strokes, being inquired if he would confesse his damnable actes and wicked life, his toong would not serve him to speak; in respect whereof, the rest of the witches willed to search his toong, under which was founde two pinnes thrust up into the heade, whereupon the witches did say, now is the charme stinted, and shewed that these charmed pins were the cause he could not confesse any thing; then was he immediately released of the bootes, brought before the king, his confession was taken, and his own hand willingly set thereunto.... but this doctor, notwithstanding that his owne confession appeareth remaining in recorde under his owne hande-writing, and the same thereunto fixed in the presence of the king's majestie, and sundrie of his councell, yet did he utterly denie the same. whereupon the kinges majestie, perceiving his stubbourne wilfulnesse, conceived and imagined that in the time of his absence hee had entered into newe conference and league with the devill, his master, and that hee had beene agayne newly marked, for the which he was narrowly searched; but it coulde not in anie wice be founde; yet, for more tryall of him to make him confesse, hee was commaunded to have a most straunge torment, which was done in this manner following: his nailes upon all his fingers were riven and pulled off with an instrument called in scottish a turkas, which in england wee call a payre of pincers, and under everie nayle there was thrust in two needles over, even up to the heads; at all which tormentes notwithstanding the doctor never shronke anie whit, neither woulde he then confesse it the sooner for all the tortures inflicted upon him. then was hee, with all convenient speed, by commandement, convaied againe to the torment of the bootes, wherein he continued a long time, and did abide so many blowes in them, that the legges were crusht and beaten together as small as might bee, and the bones and flesh so bruised that the blood and marrow spouted forth in great abundance, whereby they were made unserviceable for ever; and notwithstanding all those grievous paines and cruell torments, hee would not confess anie thing; so deeply had the devill entered into his heart, that hee utterly denied all that which he had before avouched, and would saie nothing thereunto but this, that what he had done and sayde before, was onely done and sayde for fear of paynes which he had endured. after this horrible treatment the wretched man was strangled and burnt. the following list gives a few--and only a few--of the direful results to which this widespread superstition led. the instances are chiefly taken from dr. réville's _history of the devil_, and haydn's well-known _dictionary of dates_:- at toulouse a noble lady, fifty-six years of age, named angela de labarète, was the first who was burnt as a sorceress, in which special quality she formed part of the great _auto-da-fé_ which took place in that city in the year 1275; at carcasonne, from 1320 to 1350, more than four hundred executions for witchcraft are on record; in 1309 many templars were burnt at paris for witchcraft; joan of arc was burnt as a witch at rouen, may 30th, 1431; in 1484 pope innocent viii. issued a bull against witchcraft, causing persecutions to break out in all parts of christendom; during three months of the year 1515, about five hundred witches were burnt at geneva; in 1524 many persons were burnt for the same crime in the diocese of como; about the year 1520 a great number suffered in france, and one sorcercer confessed to having 1,200 associates; from 1580 to 1595--a period of fifteen years--about nine hundred witches were burnt in lorraine; between 1627 and 1629, no fewer than one hundred and fifty-seven persons, old and young, and of all ranks, were burnt at wurtzburg, in bavaria; in 1634 a clerk named urbain grandier, who was parish priest at loudon, was burnt on a charge of having bewitched a whole convent of ursuline nuns; in 1654 twenty poor women were put to death as witches in brittany; in 1648-9 serious disturbances on account of witchcraft took place in massachusetts; and in 1683 dreadful persecutions raged in pennsylvania from the same cause; in 1692, at salem, in new england, nineteen persons were hanged by the puritans for witchcraft, and eight more were condemned, while fifty others confessed themselves to be witches, and were pardoned; in 1657 the witch-judge nicholas remy boasted of having burnt nine hundred persons in fifteen years; in one german principality alone, at least two hundred and forty-two persons were burnt between 1646 and 1651, including many children from one to six years of age; in 1749 maria renata was burnt at wurtzburg for witchcraft; on january 17th, 1775, nine old women were burnt at kalish, in poland, on a charge of having bewitched and rendered unfruitful the lands belonging to the palatinate; at landshut, in bavaria, in 1756, a young girl of thirteen years was convicted of impure intercourse with the devil and put to death. there were also executions for sorcery at seville, in spain, in 1781, and at glarus, in switzerland, in 1783; while even as late as december 15th, 1802, five women were condemned to death for sorcery at patna, in the bengal presidency, by the brahmins, and were all executed. in england the record of witchcraft is also a melancholy chapter. a statute was enacted declaring all witchcraft and sorcery to be felony without benefit of clergy, 33 henry viii. 1541; and again 5 elizabeth, 1562, and 1 james i. 1603. the 73rd canon of the church, 1603, prohibits the clergy from casting out devils. barrington estimates the judicial murders for witchcraft in england, during two hundred years, at 30,000; matthew hopkins, the "witch-finder," caused the judicial murder of about one hundred persons in essex, norfolk, and suffolk, 1645-7; sir matthew hale burnt two persons for witchcraft in 1664; about 1676 seventeen or eighteen persons were burnt as witches at st. osyths, in essex; in 1705 two pretended witches were executed at northampton, and five others seven years afterwards; in 1716, a mrs. hicks, and her daughter, a little girl of nine years old, are said to have been hanged as witches at huntingdon, but of this there seems to be some doubt. the last really authentic trial in england for witchcraft took place in 1712, when the jury convicted an old woman named jane wenham, of walkerne, a little village in the north of hertfordshire, and she was sentenced to be hanged. the judge, however, quietly procured a reprieve for her, and a kind-hearted gentleman in the neighbourhood gave her a cottage to live in, where she ended her days in peace. with regard to the mobbing of reputed sorcerers, it is recorded that in the year 1628, dr. lamb, a so-called wizard, who had been under the protection of the duke of buckingham, was torn to pieces by a london mob. while even as late as april 22nd, 1751, a wild and tossing rabble of about 5,000 persons beset and broke into the work-house at tring, in hertfordshire, where seizing luke osborne and his wife, two inoffensive old people suspected of witchcraft, they ducked them in a pond till the old woman died. after which, her corpse was put to bed to her husband by the mob, of whom only one person--a chimney-sweeper named colley, who was the ringleader--was brought to trial and hanged for the detestable outrage. the laws against witchcraft in england had lain dormant for many years, when an ignorant person attempted to revive them by filing a bill against a poor old woman in surrey, accused as a witch; this led to the repeal of the laws by the statute 10 george ii. 1736. credulity in witchcraft, however, still lingers in some of the country districts of the united kingdom. on september 4th, 1863, a poor old paralysed frenchman died in consequence of having been ducked as a wizard at castle hedingham, in essex, and similar cases have since occurred; while on september 17th, 1875,--only ten years ago--an old woman named ann turner, was killed as a witch, by a half-insane man, at long compton, warwickshire. in scotland, thousands of persons were burnt for witchcraft within a period of about a hundred years, in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. among the victims were persons of the highest rank, while all orders of the state concurred. james i. even caused a whole assize to be prosecuted because of an acquittal; the king published his work on _dæmonologie_, in edinburgh, in 1597; the last sufferer for witchcraft in scotland was at dornoch, in 1722. confessions of witches under torture. _le 4 juillet 1617._ devant amice de carteret, ecuyer, baillif, présents, etc. sentence de mort. _collette du mont_, veuve de _jean becquet_, _marie_, sa fille, femme de _pierre massy_, _isbel bequet_, femme de _jean le moygne_, etant par la coutume renommée et bruit des gens de longue main du bruit de damnable art de sorcellerie, et icelles sur ce saisies et apprehendées par les officiers de sa majesté, apres s'etre volontairement sumis et sur l'enquete generale du pays, et apres avoir été plusieurs fois conduites en justice, ouïes, examinées et confrontées sur un grand nombre de depositions faites et produites à l'encontre d'elles par les dits officiers, par lesquels est clair et evident qu'auraient, par longeur d'années, le susdit diabolique art de sorcellerie, par avoir non seulement jété leur sort sur des choses insensible, mais aussi tenu en langueur par maladies etranges plusieurs personnes et betes, et aussi cruellement meurti grand nombre d'hommes, femmes, et enfans, et fait mourir plusieurs animaux, recordés aux informations sur ce faites, s'ensuit qu'elles sont plainement convaincues et atteintes d'etre sorcieres. pour reparation duquel crime a eté dit par la cour que lesdites femmes seront presentement conduites la halte au col au lieu de supplice accoutumé, et par l'officier criminel attachées à un poteau, pendues, etranglées, osciées, et brulées, jusqu'à ce que leur chairs et ossements soient reduits en cendres, et leurs cendres eparcées; et sont tous les biens, meubles, et heritages, si aucun en ont acquit, à sa majesté. pour leur faire confesser leurs complices, qu'elles seront mises à la question en justice avant que d'etre executées. [translation.] before amice de carteret, esq., bailiff, and the jurats. _july 4th, 1617._ sentence of death. _collette du mont_, widow of _jean becquet_; _marie_, her daughter, wife of _pierre massy_; and _isabel becquet_, wife of _jean le moygne_, being by common rumour and report for a long time past addicted to the damnable art of witchcraft, and the same being thereupon seized and apprehended by the officers of his majesty [james i.], after voluntarily submitting themselves, both upon the general inquest of the country, and after having been several times brought up before the court, heard, examined, and confronted, upon a great number of depositions made and produced before the court by the said officers; from which it is clear and evident that for many years past the aforesaid women have practiced the diabolical art of witchcraft, by having not only cast their spells upon inanimate objects, but also by having retained in languor through strange diseases, many persons and beasts; and also cruelly hurt a great number of men, women, and children, and caused the death of many animals, as recorded in the informations thereupon laid, it follows that they are clearly convicted and proved to be witches. in expiation of which crime it has been ordered by the court that the said women shall be presently conducted, with halters about their necks, to the usual place of punishment, and shall there be fastened by the executioner to a gallows, and be hanged, strangled, killed, and burnt, until their flesh and bones are reduced to ashes, and the ashes shall be scattered; and all their goods, chattels, and estates, if any such exist, shall be forfeited to his majesty. in order to make them disclose their accomplices, they shall be put to the question before the court, previous to being executed. sentence de mort ayant esté prononcée à l'encontre de _collette du mont_, veuve de _jean becquet_, _marie_, sa fille, femme de _pierre massy_, et _isbel becquet_, femme de _jean le moygne_, auroyent icelles confessé comme suit:-confession de collette du mont. premier, la diste _collette_ immediatement appres la dyte sentence donnée, et avant que de sortir de l'auditoire, a librement recognu qu'elle estoit sorciere; toutesfois ne voulant particularizer les crimes qu'auroit commis a esté conduite avec les autres en la maison de la question, et la dite question luy estant applicquée, a confessé qu'elle estoit encore jeune lors que le diable en forme de chat: s'aparut à elle: en la paroisse de torteval: lors qu'elle retournoit de son bestiall, estant encore jour, et qu'il print occasion de la seduire, par l'inciter à se venger d'un de ses voisins avec lequell elle estoit pour lors en querelle pour quelque domage qu'elle auroit receu par les bestes d'yceluy; que depuis lors qu'elle avoit eu querelle avec quelcun, ill se representoit à elle en la susdite forme: et quelquefois en forme de chien: l'induisant à se venger de ceux contre lesquels elle estoit faschée: la persuadant de faire mourir des personnes et bestes. que le diable l'estant venue querir pour aller au sabat, l'appelloit sans qu'on s'en apperceust: et luy bailloit ung certain onguent noir, duquel (appres s'etre despouillée) elle se frotoit le dos, ventre et estomac: et s'estant revestuë, sortoit hors son huis, lors estoit incontinent emportée par l'air d'une grande vitesse: et se trouvoit a l'instant au lieu du sabat, qui estoit quelquefois pres le cimetiere de la paroisse: et quelques autres fois pres le rivage de la mer, aux environs du chateau de rocquaine: là où estant arivée s'y rencontroit souvent quinze ou saize sorciers et sorcieres avec les diables, qu'y estoient là en forme de chiens, chats, et lievres: lesquels sorciers et sorcieres elle n'a peu recognoistre, parce qu'ils estoyent tous noircis et deffigurés: bien est vray avoir ouy le diable les evocquer par leur noms, et se souvaient entre autres de la _fallaise_, et de la _hardie_; dit confesse qu'a l'entrée du sabath: le diable les voulant esvosquer commencoit par elle quelquefois. que sa fille _marie_, femme de _massy_, à present condamnée pour pareill crime, est sorciere: et qu'elle la menée par deux fois au sabath avec elle: ne scait par où le diable la merchée: qu'au sabath appres avoir adoré le diable, lequell se tenoit debout sur ses pieds de derriere, ils avoient copulation avec luy en forme de chien; puis dansoyent dos a dos. et appres avoir dansé, beuvoyent du vin (ne scait de quelle couleur), que le diable versoit hors d'un pot en ung gobelet d'argent ou d'estrain; lequell vin ne luy sembloit sy bon que celuy qu'on boit ordinarement; mangeoist aussy du pain blanc quj leur presentoit--n'a jamais veu de sell au sabath. confesse que le diable luy avoit donné charge d'appeler en passant _isebell le moygne_: lors quelle viendroit au sabath, ce qu'elle a fait diverses fois. qu'au partir du sabath le diable l'incitoit à perpetrer plusieurs maux: et pour cest effect luy bailloit certaines pouldres noires, qu'il lui commandoit de ietter sur telles personnes et bestes qu'elle voudroit; avec laquelle pouldre elle a perpetré plusieurs maux desquels ne se souvient: entres autres en ietta sur _mes. dolbell_, ministre de la paroisse: et fut occasion de sa mort par ce moyen. par ceste mesme pouldre ensorcela la femme de _jean maugues_: toutesfois nie qu'elle soit morte par son sort: qu'elle toucha par le costé, et ietta de ceste pouldre sur la femme defuncte de _mr perchard_, successeur ministre du dit _dolbell_, en ycelle paroisse, ycelle estant pour lors enceinte, tellement qu'elle la fist mourir et son fruit--ne scait quelle occasion luy fut donnée par la dite femme. que sur le refus que la femme de _collas tottevin_ luy fist de luy donner du laict: elle fist assecher sa vache, en iettant sur ycelle de ceste pouldre: laquelle vache elle regarit par appres en luy faisant manger du son, et de l'herbe terrestre que le diable lui bailla. sentence of death having been pronounced against _collette du mont_, widow of _jean becquet_; _marie_, her daughter, wife of _pierre massy_; and _isabel becquet_, wife of _jean le moygne_; the same have confessed as follows:-confession of collette du mont. first, the said _collette_ immediately after the said sentence was pronounced, and before leaving the court, freely admitted that she was a witch; at the same time, not wishing to specify the crimes which she had committed, she was taken, along with the others, to the torture chamber, and the said question being applied to her, she confessed that she was quite young when the devil, in the form of a cat: appeared to her: in the parish of torteval: as she was returning from her cattle, it being still daylight, and that he took occasion to lead her astray by inciting her to avenge herself on one of her neighbours, with whom she was then at enmity, on account of some damage which she had suffered through the cattle of the latter; that since then when she had a quarrel with anyone, he appeared to her in the aforesaid form: and sometimes in the form of a dog: inducing her to take vengence upon those who had angered her: persuading her to cause the death of persons and cattle. that the devil having come to fetch her that she might go to the sabbath, called for her without anyone perceiving it: and gave her a certain black ointment with which (after having stripped herself), she rubbed her back, belly and stomach: and then having again put on her clothes, she went out of her door, when she was immediately carried through the air at a great speed: and she found herself in an instant at the place of the sabbath, which was sometimes near the parochial burial-ground: and at other times near the seashore in the neighbourhood of rocquaine castle: where, upon arrival, she met often fifteen or sixteen wizards and witches with the devils who were there in the form of dogs, cats, and hares: which wizards and witches she was unable to recognise, because they were all blackened and disfigured: it was true, however, that she had heard the devil summon them by their names, and she remembered among others those of _fallaise_ and _hardie_; confessed that on entering the sabbath: the devil wishing to summon them commenced with her sometimes. admitted that her daughter _marie_, wife of _massy_, now condemned for a similar crime, was a witch: and that she took her twice to the sabbath with her: at the sabbath, after having worshipped the devil, who used to stand up on his hind legs, they had connection with him under the form of a dog; then they danced back to back. and after having danced, they drank wine (she did not know what colour it was), which the devil poured out of a jug into a silver or pewter goblet; which wine did not seem to her so good as that which was usually drunk; they also ate white bread which he presented to them--she had never seen any salt at the sabbath. confessed that the devil had charged her to call, as she passed, for _isabel le moygne_: when she came to the sabbath, which she had done several times. on leaving the sabbath the devil incited her to commit various evil deeds: and to that effect he gave her certain black powders, which he ordered her to throw upon such persons and cattle as she wished; with this powder she perpetrated several wicked acts which she did not remember: among others she threw some upon _mr dolbell_, parish minister: and was the occasion of his death by these means. with this same powder she bewitched the wife of _jean maugues_: but denied that the woman's death was caused by it: she also touched on the side, and threw some of this powder over the deceased wife of _mr perchard_, the minister who succeeded the said _dolbell_ in the parish, she being _enceinte_ at the time, and so caused the death of her and her infant--she did not know that the deceased woman had given her any cause for doing so. upon the refusal of the wife of _collas tottevin_ to give her some milk: she caused her cow to dry up, by throwing upon it some of this powder: which cow she afterwards cured again by making it eat some bran, and some terrestrial herb that the devil gave her. confession de marie becquet. _marie_, femme de _pierre massy_, appres sentence de mort prononcée a l'encontre d'elle, ayant esté mise a la question, a confessé qu'elle est sorciere; et qu'à la persuation du diable, quj s'aparut à elle en forme de chien: elle se donna à luy: que lors que se donna à luy ill la print de sa patte par la main: qu'elle s'est oint du mesme onguent que sa mere s'oignoit: et a esté au sabath sur la banque pres du chateau de rocquaine, avec luy, où n'y avoit que le diable et elle, se luy sembloit: en la susdite forme en laquelle elle la veu plusieurs fois. a été aussi au sabath une fois entre autres en la ruë, _collas tottevin_; que toutes les fois qu'elle alloit au sabath le diable la venant querir luy sembloit qu'il la transformait en chienne; dit que sur le rivage, pres du dit rocquaine: le diable, en forme de chien, ayant eu copulation avec elle, luy donnoit du pain et du vin, qu'elle mangeoit et beuvoit. que le diable luy bailloit certaines pouldres: lesquelles pouldres ill luy mettoit dans la main, pour ietter sur ceux qu'il luy commanderoit: qu'elle en a ietté par son commandement sur des personnes et bestes: notament sur l'enfant _pierre brehaut_. item, sur la femme _jean bourgaize_ lors qu'estoit enciente. item, sur l'enfant _leonard le messurier_. confession of marie becquet. _marie_, wife of _pierre massy_, after sentence of death had been pronounced against her, having been put to the question, confessed that she was a witch; and that at the persuasion of the devil, who appeared to her in the form of a dog: she gave herself to him: that when she gave herself to him he took her by the hand with his paw: that she used to anoint herself with the same ointment as her mother used: and had been to the sabbath upon the bank near rocquaine castle with her, where there was no one but the devil and her as it seemed: in the aforesaid form in which she had seen him several times: she was also at the sabbath on one occasion among others in the road near _collas tottevin's_; every time that she went to the sabbath, the devil came to her, and it seemed as though he transformed her into a female dog; she said that upon the shore, near the said rocquaine: the devil, in the form of a dog, having had connection with her, gave her bread and wine, which she ate and drank. the devil gave her certain powders: which powders he put into her hand, for her to throw upon those whom he ordered her: she threw some of them by his orders upon persons and cattle: notably upon the child of _pierre brehaut_. item, upon the wife of _jean bourgaize_, while she was _enceinte_. item, upon the child of _leonard le messurier_. confession d'isabel becquet. _isebelle_, femme de _jean de moygne_, ayant esté mise a la question, a tout aussytost confessé qu'elle est sorciere: et que sur ce qu'elle tomba en querelle avec la _girarde_, sa belle-soeur: le diable en forme de lievre print occasion de la seduire: se representant à elle en plain jour dans une ruë pres de sa maison: et la persuadant et incitant de se donner à luy: et que l'aideroit à se venger de la dite _girarde_ et de tous aultres: à laquelle persuation n'ayant icelle à l'instant voulu condescendre: aussy tout disparut: mais incontinent luy vint derechef au devant en la mesme ruë, et poursuyvant sa premiere pointe: l'exhortoit aux mesmes fins que dessus: cela fait, ill la laissa et se retira, apres luy avoir, au prealable, mis une pochée de pasnés; qu'elle portoit pour lors, une certaine pouldre noire envelopée dans ung linge qu'il mist: laquelle pouldre elle retint par devers soy. s'aparut à elle une autre fois en mesme forme au territoire de la ville, l'incitant dereschef à se donner à luy, à quoy ne voulant icelle condescendre luy fist adonc requeste de luy donner une beste vive: lors de ce pas revint ches elle querir ung poullet, qu'elle luy apporta au mesme lieu où l'avoit laissé, lequell ill print: et appres l'avoir remerecie luy donna assignation de se trouver le lendemain avant jour au sabath, avec promesse qu'il l'enverroit querir: suivant laquelle promesse, estant la nuittée ensuivant, la vielle _collette du mont_ venant la querir, lui bailla de l'onguent noir qu'elle avoit eu du diable; duquell (apprès s'estre despouillée) s'oignit le dos, et le ventre, puis s'estant revestuë, sortit l'huis de sa maison: lors fut à l'instant enlevée: et transportée au travers hayes et buissons, pres la banque sur le bord de la mer, aux environs du chasteau de rocquaine, lieu ordinaire où le diable gardoit son sabath; là où ne fut sytost arivée, que le diable ne vint la trouver en forme de chien avec deux grandes cornes dressées en hault: et de l'une de ses pattes (qui lui sembloyent comme mains), la print par la main: et l'appellant par son nom, luy dist qu'estoit la bien venuë: lors aussytost le diable la fist mettre sur ses genoux: luy se tenant debout sur ses pieds de derrière; luy ayant fait detester l'esternelle en ses mots: _je renie dieu le pere, dieu le fils et dieu le st. esprit_; se fist adorer et invocquer en ses termes: _nostre grand maistre aide nous!_ avec paction expresse d'adherer à luy; que cela fait, ill ont copulation avec elle en la susdite forme de chien, ung peu plus grand: puis elle et les aultres danserent avec luy dos à dos: qu'apres avoir dansé, le diable versoit hors d'un pot du vin noir, qu'il leur presentoit dans une escuelle de bois, duquell elle beut, toutesfois ne luy sembloit sy bon que le vin quj se boit ordinairement: qu'il y avoit du pain--mais n'en mangea point: confesse qu'elle se donna lors à luy pour ung mois: ainsy retournerent du sabath comme y estoyent allés. que seconde fois fut au sabath, apres que la vielle _collette_ l'eut esté querir et qu'elle se fist oindre d'onguent cy dessus;--declare qu'à l'entree du sabath eut dereschef copulation avec le diable, et dansa avec luy; appres avoir dansé, à sa solicitation de prolonger le temps, se donna à luy pour trois ans; qu'au sabath le diable faisoit evocation des sorciers et sorcieres par ordre (se souvient tresbien y avoir ouy le diable appeller la vielle _collette_, la premiere, en ces termes: _madame la vielle becquette_); puis la _fallaise_; appres la _hardie_. item, _marie_, femme de _massy_, fille de la dite _collette_. dit appres eux, elle mesme estoit evosquée par le diable, en ses termes: _la petite becquette_; qu'elle y a ouy aussy evosquer _collas becquet_, fils de la dit vielle (lequell la tenoit par la main en dansant, et une que ne cognoist la tenoit par l'autre main): qu'il y en avoit viron six autres que ne cognoissoit: que la dite vielle estoit tousjours proche du diable: que quelque fois tandis que les uns dansoyent les autres avoyent copulation avec les diables en forme de chien: et estoyent au sabath viron trois ou quatre heures, non plus. qu'estant au sabath le diable la mercha en haut de la cuisse: laquelle merche ayant esté reuisitée par les sage femmes, ont raporté avoir mis dedans une petite espingue bien avant, qu'elle n'a point senty, et n'en est sorty aulcuns sang; ne scait par ou le diable a merche les autres: que les premiers venues au lieu du sabath attendoyent les autres; et apparoissoyent tous les sorciers et sorcieres en leur propre formes: toutesfois noircis et defficgurés, et ne les pouvoit en cognoistre. que le diable apparoissoit quelque fois en forme de boucq au sabath; ne la veu en autres formes; qu'au departir, ill se faisoit baiser la derriere, leur demandant quant reviendroyent: les exhortoit qu'eussent à adherer tousiours a luy: et faire des maux, et pour cest effet leur bailloit certaines pouldres noires envelopées dans ung drapeau, pour en ietter sur ceux qu'ils vouloyent ensorcerer: qu'au departir du sabath le diable s'en alloit d'un coste et eux de l'autre: appres les avoir toutes prinses par la main: qu'à l'instigation du diable elle en a jetté sur plusieurs personnes et bestes: notament sur _jean jehan_, lors qu'il vint chez elle querir ung pourceau. item, sur l'enfant _james gallienne_, et sur aultres: item, sur les bestes de _brouart_ et aultres. que c'estoit le diable qui fut veu ches le susdit _gallienne_, en forme de rat et bellette, ycelle estant pour lors aux environs de la maison du dit _gallienne_, et s'estant venu rendre à elle en resemblance d'homme, la frapa de plusieurs coups par le visage et teste: dont estoit ainsy meurdie et deschirée lors que fut veüe le lendemain par _thomas sohier_. et croit que la cause de ce maltraitement fut pour ce que ne voulut aller avec le diable chez le dit _gallienne_. qu'elle n'alloit point au sabath sinon lors que son mary estoit demeuré la nuict en pescherie à la mer. que lors qu'elle vouloit ensorceler quelcun, sa poudre estant faillie, le diable s'aparoissoit à elle, luy disant qu'allast en querir en tell endroit qu'il luy nommoit, ce qu'elle faisoit, et ne falloit d'y en trouver. confession of isabel becquet. _isabel_, wife of _jean le moygne_, having been put to the question, at once confessed that she was a witch: and that upon her getting into a quarrel with the woman _girarde_, who was her sister-in-law: the devil, in the form of a hare, took occasion to tempt her: appearing to her in broad daylight in a road near her house: and persuading and inciting her to give herself to him: and that he would help her to avenge herself on the said _girarde_, and everybody else: to which persuasion she would not at the moment condescend to yield: so he at once disappeared: but very soon he came again to her in the same road, and pursuing his previous argument: exhorted her in the same terms as above: that done, he left her and went away, after having previously put her a sackful of parsnips; she then took a certain black powder wrapped in a cloth which he placed; which powder she kept by her. he appeared to her another time under the same form in the town district, inciting her anew to give herself to him, but she not wishing to comply, he next made a request to her to give him some living animal: whereupon she returned to her dwelling and fetched a chicken, which she carried to him to the same place where she had left him, and he took it: and after having thanked her he made an appointment for her to be present the next morning before daylight at the sabbath, promising that he would send for her: according to which promise, during the ensuing night, the old woman _collette du mont_, came to fetch her, and gave her some black ointment, which she had had from the devil; with this (after having stripped herself) she anointed her back and belly, then having dressed herself again she went out of her house door: when she was instantly caught up: and carried across hedges and bushes to the bank on the sea shore, in the neighbourhood of rocquaine castle, the usual place where the devil kept his sabbath; no sooner had she arrived there than the devil came to her in the form of a dog, with two great horns sticking up: and with one of his paws (which seemed to her like hands) took her by the hand: and calling her by her name told her that she was welcome: then immediately the devil made her kneel down: while he himself stood up on his hind legs; he then made her express detestation of the eternal in these words: _i renounce god the father, god the son, and god the holy ghost_; and then caused her to worship and invoke himself in these terms: _our great master, help us!_ with a special compact to be faithful to him; and when this was done he had connection with her in the aforesaid form of a dog, but a little larger: then she and the others danced with him back to back: after having danced, the devil poured out of a jug some black wine, which he presented to them in a wooden bowl, from which she drank, but it did not seem to her so good as the wine which is usually drunk: there was also bread--but she did not eat any: confessed that she gave herself to him for a month: they returned from the sabbath in the same manner that they went there. the second time she was at the sabbath was after the old woman _collette_ had been to fetch her, and she anointed herself with the ointment as above stated;--declared, that on entering the sabbath, she again had connection with the devil and danced with him; after having danced, and upon his solicitation to prolong the time, she gave herself to him for three years; at the sabbath the devil used to summon the wizards and witches in regular order (she remembered very well having heard him call the old woman _collette_ the first, in these terms: _madame the old woman becquette_): then the woman _fallaise_; and afterwards the woman _hardie_. item, he also called _marie_, wife of _massy_, and daughter of the said _collette_. said that after them, she herself was called by the devil: in these terms: _the little becquette_: she also heard him call there _collas becquet_, son of the said old woman (who [_collas_] held her by the hand in dancing, and someone [a woman] whom she did not know, held her by the other hand): there were about six others there she did not know: the said old woman was always the nearest to the devil: occasionally while some were dancing, others were having connection with the devils in the form of dogs; they remained at the sabbath about three or four hours, not more. while at the sabbath the devil marked her at the upper part of the thigh: which mark having been examined by the midwives, they reported that they had stuck a small pin deeply into it, and that she had not felt it, and that no blood had issued: she did not know in what part the devil had marked the others: those who came first to the place of the sabbath, waited for the others; and all the wizards and witches appeared in their proper forms: but blackened and disfigured so that they could not be recognised. the devil appeared sometimes in the form of a goat at the sabbath; never saw him in other forms: on their departure he made them kiss him behind, and asked them when they would come again: he exhorted them always to be true to him: and to do evil deeds, and to this end he gave them certain black powders, wrapped in a cloth, for them to throw upon those whom they wished to bewitch: on leaving the sabbath, the devil went away in one direction and they in the other: after he had taken them all by the hand: at the instigation of the devil she threw some of the powder over several persons and cattle: notably over _jean jehan_, when he came to her house to look for a pig. item, over the child of _james gallienne_, and over others. item, over the cattle of _brouart_, and of others. it was the devil that was seen at the said _gallienne's_ house in the form of a rat and a weazle, she herself being then in the neighbourhood of _gallienne's_ house, and he [the devil] came to her in the form of a man, and struck her several blows on the face and head: by which she was bruised and torn in the way that she was seen the next day by _thomas sohier_. and she believed that the cause of this maltreatment was because she would not go with the devil to the house of the said _gallienne_. she never went to the sabbath except when her husband remained all night fishing at sea. whenever she wanted to bewitch anyone and her powder happened to have been all used up, the devil appeared to her and told her to go to such a place, which he named, for some more, and when she did so, she never failed to find it there. depositions contre collas becquet. _le xvij mai 1617._ _susanne le tellier_, veufve de _pierre rougier_, depose que son mary estant decedé, trouva des sorcerots en son lict; et qu'en son djt lict mortuaire, il se plaignoit esté ensorcelé par _collas becquet_, avec lequel avoit eu dispute, sur laquelle dispute luy dyt que s'en repentiroit; et la dessus fut prins de m...[a] duquel fut douze jours malade; qu'ils trouverent quarante-quatre sorcerots en l'oreiller de son enfant, que les uns estoyent fait comme herissons, les autres comme pommes, et les autres plats comme la rouelle de la main; et du fill de chanvre entortillé avec de plumes. [footnote a: illegible in the record.] _susanne_, femme de _jean le messurier_, depose que son mary et _collas becquet_ plaiderent à jour passé ensemble; qu'allors ils avoyent ung enfant ayant de viron six semaines, et comme elle le despouilloit au soir, pour le coucher, il tomba sur l'estomac du djt enfant une beste noire laquelle fondit si tost que fut tombée, d'aultant qu'elle fist debvoir de la rechercher et ne peut jamais apercevoir qu'elle devint; incontinent l'enfant fut prins de mal et ne voulu teter, mais fut fort tormenté; que s'estant avisée de regarder dans l'oreiller du djt enfant y trouverent des sorcerots cousus de fil, et les ayant tirés et bien espluché la plume de l'oreiller, y regarda sept jours appres et y entrouva derechef avec une febve noire percée; dequoy, ayant le djt _becquet_ ouy qu'il en estoit suspecté, sa femme vint ches la deposante comme le djt _becquet_ estoit à la mer, et luy djt qu'à raison du bruit que la deposante avoit sucité sur son mary, iceluy _becquet_ fuetteroit le djt _mesurier_, son mary, et elle, et les tueroit; qu'apres cela la deposante fut ches eux leur dire que ne les craignoit, ny luy ny elle, de ce qu'ils la menacoyent de tuer son mary et elle; qu'ayant la deposante un jour six grands poulets qui couroyent appres leur mere, ils sortirent de leur maison et revinent au soir; et un à un se mirent a saulter en hault contre la cheminée et manget la scie, qu'ils moururent tous un à un, à voy ...[b] comme ils sautoyent, jusques au dernier qui dura en vie jusqu'à une heure devant le jour qu'il mourut; que depuis que l'eurent declare à _mr deljsle_ et les eut menacés, il a amendé à son enfant et se porte bien. [footnote b: illegible in the record.] _collas rougier_ depose que son frere _piere rougier_ en mourant chargeoit _collas becquet_ de sa mort. _collas hugues_ raport qu'estant en une nopsce y survint _collas becquet_ jouet avec sa belle-fille, laquelle le rebouta; et des le mesme soir elle fut frapée de telle facon qu'on pensoit qu'elle mourust à chacune heure; qu'elle est demeurée mechaignée de coste, et trouva un des sorcerots en son lict, qui pour lors furent monstrés à messrs de justice qui estoyent à tenir des veues à st. pierre; que la djte fille tomboit quelque fois y terre toute aveuglée. la femme du djt _hugues_ depose tout de mesme que son mary. _jean de garis_, fils _guillaume_, depose qu'il y a viron deux ou trois ans qu'ayant presté quelque argent sur un gage à _collas becquet_, luy demandant son argent, ou qu'il feroit ventiller son gage; luy repartit le djt _becquet_ à feray donc ventiller autre chose; qu'estant le djt _de garis_ arivé en sa maison, trouva la fille malade et affligée; qu'ils trouverent des sorcerots et aultres brouilleries par plusieurs fois à l'oreiller de leur enfant; mais que la mere du djt _becquet_ estant venue en la maison du djt _de garis_, luy donna à boire de l'eau et la moitié d'un pain comme avoit esté conseillé de faire; depuis ne trouverent plus rien à l'oreiller du djt enfant; toutesfois pour eviter les djts sorcerots, ont toujours depuis couché leur enfant sur la paille; croit que ce mal leur ariva par leur moyen. _mr thomas de ljsle_ depose que _thomas brouart_, qui demeure en sa maison, ayant appellé le fils de _collas becquet_, sorcier, il arriva qu'il fut un jour trouvé au lict du djt _thomas_ grand nombre de vers, et les ayant le djt _sieur de ljsle_ veus, les jugea comme une formioniere, tant estoyent mouvans et espais, et à peine en peuvent vuider le dit enfant, l'ayant mis en plusieurs endroits; qu'appres fut le djt enfant accueillis de poulx de telle maniere que quoyque luy changeassent des chemises et habits tous les jours ne l'en pouvoyent franchir; et qu'ayant le djt _thomas brouart_ un corset tout neuf, fut tellement couvert de poulx qu'on n'auroit peu cognoistre le drap, et fut contraint le faire jetter parmy les choux; surquoy fait menacer aultre _massi_ de la batre si elle ne s'abstenoit d'ainsy traiter son enfant; qu'estant revenu trouva le djt corset parmis les choux denue de poulx, lesquels du depuis ont quitté le djt _brouart_. _jacques le mesurier_ depose qu'il y a viron deux ou trois ans qu'il rencontra _collas becquet_ et _perot massi_, quj avoyent du poisson, et d'aultant qu'ils lui debvoyent de l'argent, il voulut prendre de leur poisson à rabatre, mais ne luy en voulant bailler, eurent quelque dispute; sur quoy l'un des djts _becquet_ ou _massi_ le menacerent qu'il s'en repentiroit; qu'au bout de deux ou trois jours il fut saisi d'un mal que le brusloit, et quelques fois devenoit tout morfondu, sans qu'on le peust eschauffer, et sans aulcune relache; qu'il fut en ces tourments pres d'un mois. _collas becquet_ entendit que le deposant le chargeoit d'estre causte de son mal, et menacoit qu'il tueroit le djt deposant; mais bientost appres fut le djt deposant guery; dit de cuider et de croire les djts _becquet_ et _massy_, ou un d'iceux, fut cause de son mal. depositions against collas becquet. _may 17, 1617._ _susanne le tellier_, widow of _pierre rougier_, deposed that after her husband was dead she found witches' spells in his bed; and that while he was upon his said deathbed he complained of being bewitched by _collas becquet_, with whom he had had a quarrel, and who during the quarrel told him he would repent of it; whereupon he was taken with ...[a], whereof he was ill for twelve days; they also found forty-four witches' spells in her child's pillow, some of which were made like hedgehogs, others round like apples, and others again flat like the palm of the hand; and they were of hempen thread twisted with feathers. [footnote a: illegible in the record.] _susanne_, wife of _jean le messurier_, deposed that her husband and _collas becquet_ had angry words together one day; they had an infant about six weeks old, and as she was undressing it in the evening to put it to bed, there fell upon the stomach of the said infant, a black beast which melted away as soon as it fell, so that although she carefully sought for it, she could never discover what had become of it; immediately afterwards the infant was taken ill and would not suck, but was much tormented; being advised to look into the said infant's pillow, she found there several witches' spells sewn with thread; these she took out and carefully dressed all the feathers in the pillow; yet when she examined it again a week afterwards, she found there a black bean with a hole in it; of which, the said _becquet_ hearing that he was suspected, his wife came to witness's house while the said _becquet_ was at sea, and told her that on account of the rumour which witness had raised about her husband, he the said _becquet_ would thrash the said _messurier_, her husband, and herself, and would kill them; after that, witness went to their house to say they were not afraid either of him or her, or of their threats to kill her husband and her; witness had six big chickens which ran after their mother, going out of the house in the morning and returning at night; and one by one they began to jump up against the chimney and eat the soot, so that they all died one after the other, ...[b] as they jumped, until the last one which remained alive up to one hour of daybreak, when it died; after they had told this to _mr. de lisle_, and he had threatened the people, her infant recovered and remained well. [footnote b: illegible in the record.] _collas rougier_ deposed that his brother _pierre rougier_ when dying charged _collas becquet_ with causing his death. _collas hugues_ reported that being at a wedding, _collas becquet_ arrived there, and began to toy with his daughter-in-law, who repelled his advances; the very same evening she was taken ill in such a manner that they thought she would have died from one hour to another; besides which she remained under the charm, and they found one of the witches' spells in her bed, which was shown to the members of the court, who were making an inspection at st. peter's; the said girl sometimes fell to the ground quite blinded. the wife of the said _hugues_ deposed to exactly the same as her husband. _jean de garis_, son of _william_, deposed that about two or three years ago, having lent some money on pledge to _collas becquet_, he asked him for the money, or else for a verification of his security; when the said _becquet_ replied that he would let him know what his security was; the said _de garis_ having then returned home, found his daughter sick and afflicted; they found witches' spells and other conjurations several times in their child's pillow; but the mother of the said _becquet_ having come to the said _de garis's_ house, he gave her a drink of water and half-a-loaf of bread, as he had been advised to do; since which time they had found nothing more in the child's pillow; however to avoid all risk of the said witches' spells they had always since then let their child sleep upon straw; he fully believed that this evil had come upon them by their means. _mr. thomas de lisle_ deposed that _thomas brouart_, who resided in his house, having called the son of _collas becquet_ a wizard, it happened that there was one day found in the said _thomas's_ bed a great number of maggots, which the said _sieur de lisle_ saw, and compared to an ant-hill, so lively and thick were they, and they could hardly clear the said child of them, although they put it in different places; afterwards the said child gathered lice in such a manner that although its shirts and clothes were changed every day they could not free it; the said _thomas brouart_ also had a brand new vest, which was so covered with lice that it was impossible to see the cloth, and he was compelled to have it thrown among the cabbages; upon which he went and threatened _massi's_ wife that he would beat her if she did not abstain from thus treating his child; and on returning he found the said vest among the cabbages clear of lice, which had also since then quitted the said _brouart_. _jacques le mesurier_ deposed that about two or three years ago he met _collas becquet_ and _perot massi_, who had some fish and who moreover owed him money; he wished to take some of their fish at a reduced price, but they would not agree to it, and they quarrelled; whereupon one of the two, either _becquet_ or _massi_, threatened him that he would repent of it; and at the end of two or three days, he was seized with a sickness in which he first burnt like fire and then was benumbed with cold so that nothing would warm him, and this without any cessation; he suffered in this way for nearly a month. _collas becquet_ heard that witness charged him with being the cause of his sickness, and he threatened that he would kill witness; but very soon afterwards the said witness was cured; and he affirms and believes that the said _becquet_ and _massy_, or one of them, was the cause of his attack. * * * * * note on the guernsey records. the records at the guernsey _greffe_, from which the foregoing confessions and depositions have been transcribed, and whence the following list of accusations is compiled, are of a very voluminous character. in fact there is enough matter in them, connected with witchcraft alone, to fill at least a couple of thick octavo volumes. there is, however, so much sameness in the different cases, and such a common tradition running through the whole, that the present excerpts give a very fair idea of the features which characterise the mass. while some of these records are tolerably complete, the greater part of them unfortunately are fragmentary and imperfect. the books in which they were originally written seem to have been formed of a few sheets of paper stitched together. then at some later period a number of these separate sections--in a more or less tattered condition--were gathered into volumes and bound together in vellum. it is evident, however, that very little care was exercised in their arrangement in chronological order. the consequence is that one portion of a trial sometimes occurs in one part of a volume, and the rest in another part; sometimes the depositions alone seem to have been preserved; sometimes the confessions; while in many cases the sentences pronounced are all that can now be discovered. nevertheless these old records enshrine much that is interesting, and very well deserve a more exhaustive analysis than they have ever yet received. there are also in the margins of these volumes, scores of pen-and-ink sketches of a most primitive description, depicting the carrying out of the various rigours of the law. rough and uncouth as these illustrations are, they nevertheless possess a good deal of graphic significance, and i hope to reproduce some of them in facsimile, in a future publication. they represent, for instance, culprits hanging on the gallows--sometimes two or three in a row--with a fire kindled underneath; others attached to stakes in the midst of the flames; others, again, racing away under the lash of the executioner, &c., &c., and thus form a most realistic comment on the judicial severities recorded in the text. witchcraft trials in guernsey, from 1563 to 1634, a period of 71 years. queen elizabeth.--1558-1603. helier gosselin, bailiff, 1550-1563. _november 19th, 1563._ gracyene gousset, catherine prays, collette salmon, wife of collas dupont, condemned to death and the royal pardon refused. _december 17th, 1563._ françoise regnouff, martin tulouff, condemned to death and the royal pardon refused. _december 22nd, 1563._ collette gascoing. this woman was found guilty, and the royal pardon being refused, she was whipped, had one of her ears cut off, and was banished from the island. thomas compton, bailiff, 1563-1572. _july 30th, 1570._ jeannette du mareesc, was banished for seven years. _october 27th, 1570._ michelle tourtell, banished from the island. _november 3rd, 1570._ coliche tourtell, james de la rue, both banished from the island. _november 10th, 1570._ lorenche faleze, wife of henry johan, banished from the island. _november 17th, 1570._ thomasse salmon. marie gauvein, wife of ozouet. both these women were whipped, had each an ear cut off, and were banished from the island. guillaume beauvoir, bailiff, 1572-1581. no prosecutions for witchcraft seem to have taken place during his tenure of office. thomas wigmore, bailiff, 1581-1588. _1583._ collas de la rue. the result of this trial is uncertain. louis devycke, bailiff, 1588-1600. no witchcraft prosecutions during his term of office. king james i.--1603-1625. amice de carteret, bailiff, 1601-1631. _1611._ marie rolland. the result of this trial is uncertain. _june 11th, 1613._ oliver omont, cecille vaultier, wife of omont, guillemine, their daughter, were all banished from the island. _july 17th, 1613._ laurence leustace, wife of thomas le compte, banished from the island. _july 4th, 1617._ collette du mont, widow of jean becquet. marie, her daughter, wife of pierre massy. isabel becquet, wife of jean le moygne. all three women, after being found guilty, confessed under torture, and were then hanged and burnt. _august 8th, 1617._ michelle jervaise, widow salmon. jeanne guignon, wife of j. de callais, and two of her children. these four persons were hanged and burnt, after being put to the question. _october 17th, 1617._ marie de callais. philipine le parmentier, widow of nicolle, of sark. these two women were hanged and burnt, after being previously put to the question. _november 25th, 1617._ thomasse de calais, wife of isaac le patourel, banished from the island. _november 25th, 1617._ christine hamon, wife of etienne gobetell. this woman was banished from the island, but returned on may 6th, 1626, when she was again arrested and sentenced to death. she was hanged july 21st, 1626. _august 1st, 1618._ jean de callais, together with his son, and servants. all these were charged with practicing witchcraft, and were sent out of the island. _december, 1618._ jean nicolle, of sark, being found guilty, was whipped, had an ear cut off, and was banished from the island. _may 1st, 1619._ pierre massi, condemned to be hanged. he, however, contrived to get out of prison and drowned himself. _august 7th, 1619._ jeanne behot, banished from the island. _april 22nd, 1620._ girete parmentier, jeanne le cornu, widow of collas le vallois. these two women were banished. _may 8th, 1622._ collette de l'estac, wife of thomas tourgis. collette robin. catherine hallouris, widow heaulme. these three women were hanged and burnt, after being put to the question. _october 17th, 1622._ thomas tourgis, of the forest. jeanne tourgis, his daughter. michelle chivret, wife of pierre omont. all three were burnt alive. _october 19th, 1622._ jean le moigne. guillemine la bousse. this man and woman were set at liberty. _november 30th, 1622._ perine marest, wife of pierre gauvin, banished, together with her husband and children. _october 3rd, 1623._ etienne le compte, hanged and burnt. _may 28th, 1624._ marguerite tardif, wife of p. ozanne, set at liberty. _june 4th, 1624._ ester henry, wife of jean de france. this woman was burnt alive. the sentence states that her flesh and bones are to be reduced to ashes and scattered by the winds, as being unworthy of any sepulture. _july 16th, 1624._ collette la gelée. this woman was hanged and burnt. _october 22nd, 1624._ jean quaripel, hanged and burnt. king charles i.--1625-1649. _july 23rd, 1625._ elizabeth, wife of pierre duquemin, banished for 7 years. _august 11th, 1626._ jeanne de bertran, wife of jean thomas, hanged and burnt. _august 12th, 1626._ marie sohier, wife of j. de garis, hanged and burnt. _november 10th, 1626._ judith alexander, of jersey, wife of pierre jehan, hanged and burnt. _august 25th, 1627._ job nicolle, of sark, condemned to perpetual banishment. _january 16th, 1629._ anne blampied, wife of thomas heaulme, of the forest. thomas heaulme, of the forest. both banished for seven years. _may 1st, 1629._ marguerite picot (l'aubaine), hanged and burnt. _august 7th, 1629._ susanne prudhome, wife of guilbert, of the castel, put to the question, hanged, and burnt. jean de quetteville, bailiff, 1631-1644. _july 1st, 1631._ jehan nicolle, of sark, set at liberty. _july 15th, 1631._ marie mabile, wife of pierre de vauriouf. thomas civret. both were put to the question, hanged, and burnt. _july 23rd, 1631._ susanne rouane, wife of etienne le compte, judith le compte, } bertrane " } four daughters of the above. ester " } rachel " } the mother was condemned to perpetual banishment from the island, and the daughters were banished for fifteen years. _october 1st, 1631._ marie mortimer, wife of françois chirret. also her son. both were set at liberty. _october 1st, 1631._ vincente canu, wife of andré odouère. marie de callais. both were set at liberty. _december 10th, 1631._ jehan canivet. renette de garis, wife of martin maugeur. elizabeth le hardy, wife of collas deslandes. simeone mollett. marie clouet, wife of pierre beneste. all the above were condemned to perpetual banishment. _january 28th, 1634._ jacob gaudion, of alderney, condemned to perpetual banishment. _may 16th, 1634._ marie guillemotte, wife of samuel roland, known as dugorne. marie rolland, her daughter. the mother was hanged and burnt, and the daughter was condemned to perpetual banishment. the story in brief of the guille-allès library, guernsey. by j. linwood pitts. in concluding the editorial duties connected with the issue of this fourth volume of the "guille-allès library series," it seems to me that the time is an opportune one for adding some short account of the origin and foundation of the noble institution from which the "series" takes its name. the guille-allès library is proving such an immense boon to our little insular community, that very naturally, many inquiries are from time to time made--especially by strangers--as to how its existence came about. in order to answer these questions we must go as far back as the year 1834. at that time mr. guille--who is a guernseyman by birth--was but a boy of sixteen, and had been two years in america. he was serving his apprenticeship with a well-known firm in new york, and he enjoyed the privilege of access to a very extensive library in that city, founded by a wealthy corporation known as _the general society of mechanics and tradesmen_. the pleasure and profit which he derived from this source were so great, and made such a deep impression upon his mind that, young as he was, he formed the resolution that if his future life proved prosperous, and his position enabled him to do so, he would one day found a similar institution in his own little native island of guernsey. throughout the whole of his future career this intention was present with him; and commencing at once,--in spite of his then very limited means--to purchase books which should form a nucleus for the anticipated collection, he began to lay the foundation of the literary treasures which crowd the shelves of the guille-allès library to-day. at the age of twenty, when out of his apprenticeship, he found himself the possessor of several hundreds of volumes of standard works, many of which are now in the library, and upon which he must naturally look with peculiar and very legitimate pleasure, as being the corner stones of the subsequent splendid superstructure. business affairs prospered with mr. guille. as time rolled on he was taken into partnership with the firm, as was also his friend and fellow-countryman, mr. f.m. allès, and his increasing prosperity enabled him to put his cherished project into more tangible shape. while on a visit to guernsey in 1851, he wrote a few articles in the _gazette officielle_, with the view of drawing public attention to the importance of forming district or parish libraries. these articles attracted the notice of _the farmers' club_, an association of intelligent country gentlemen who met at the castel. their secretary, the late mr. nicholas le beir, wrote to mr. guille at the request of the members, informing him of their appreciation of his views, and of his having been elected an honorary member of their association, in token of their esteem. they had previously elected in a similar way the famous french poet béranger, and also guernsey's national bard, the late mr. george métivier. mr. guille accepted the honour, and the correspondence which ensued resulted in his offering his collection of books--supplemented by a considerable sum of money--towards forming the commencement of such libraries as he had been advocating. nothing, however, really definite was done until mr. guille's next visit to guernsey in 1855-6, when after consultation with that devoted friend of education, the late mr. peter roussel, a meeting of a few friends--including mr. roussel and his venerable mother, mr. guille, judge clucas, mr. le beir, and mr. henry e. marquand--who were known to be favourable to the project was held, several handsome subscriptions were promised, mr. guille renewed his offer previously made to _the farmers' club_, and a workable scheme was matured. the guille library, for so the committee decided to name the undertaking, consequently commenced its useful career in 1856. the collection of books was divided into five sections, which were placed in separate cases, and located at convenient distances about the island--where they were taken charge of by friends--the largest being reserved for the town. the intention was to exchange these cases in rotation, and so establish a circulating library in the most comprehensive sense of the term. but this was, in reality, never carried out, for after the volumes had been read in their respective stations, they were returned to their places, and left to slumber unused, until mr. guille once more came to the island in 1867, with the intention of remaining permanently, and he then had them all brought to town and arranged in one central _depôt_. mr. guille also opened a branch reading-room and library at st. martin's, in the hope of being able thereby to draw the young men of the parish from the degrading attractions of the public house. for three years he kept this comfortable room open, while in winter and summer neither rain nor storm prevented him from being present there every evening to personally superintend the undertaking. ultimately, however, he found the strain too much for his health, and he discontinued the branch so as to concentrate more attention upon the central establishment in town. for five-and-twenty years, from 1856 to 1881, mr. guille worked steadily and unostentatiously at the benevolent enterprise which he had inaugurated. death removed several of his early coadjutors, and for many years he bore all the financial burdens and toiled on single-handed and alone. what was still more discouraging was that he unfortunately had to encounter for a very long time an almost incredible amount of mental supineness on the part of those whom he was so disinterestedly seeking to benefit. it was not as though any desire for knowledge existed among the mass of the guernsey people, and he only had to assume the pleasant duty of satisfying that desire. such a desire did not exist. many of the people not only never had read any books but they flatly declined to begin. mr. guille felt that this deplorable attitude ought to be combatted, and he therefore persevered in the thankless and difficult task of trying in the first place to create the want, and in the second place to satisfy it. a quarter-of-a-century's earnest effort in a good cause, however, cannot fail to produce some fruit, and within the last three or four years much brighter days have dawned. mr. guille's lifelong friend and former business partner, mr. f.m. allès,--who had often previously substantially assisted him,--has latterly thoroughly associated himself with the work, and the result is that the rudimentary scheme of 1856 has at length culminated in the splendid guille-allès library, which was thrown open to the public in the old assembly rooms, on the 2nd of january, 1882, and bears on its portal the appropriate motto: _ingredere ut proficias_--"enter that thou mayst profit." how admirably this fine institution is fulfilling its mission is well-known to all who frequent it. it already contains a collection of over 35,000 volumes--to which constant additions are being made--of valuable and standard works in all branches of science, literature and art, both in the french and english languages, besides numerous works in german, italian, greek, latin, &c. it has a commodious reading-room, well supplied with journals and periodical publications; while a society of natural science has also been inaugurated and meets in connection with it. the guernsey mechanics' institution--after an existence of just half-a-century--was absorbed into it at the close of 1881; and the library of the _société guernesiaise_--founded in 1867--now finds a home on its shelves. the subscription for membership is merely nominal, and messrs. guille and allès have made arrangements to endow the institution with such ample funds as shall secure in perpetuity the many benefits which it is conferring upon the island. the future of the institution is therefore fully assured and its wants provided for. the spacious new buildings which have been for many months in process of erection are now (december, 1885) rapidly approaching completion. they comprise a spacious and handsome lecture hall, capable of seating from 250 to 300 persons; a book-room 63-ft. by 25-ft., exclusively for the lending department, and which will accommodate on its shelves from 45,000 to 50,000 additional volumes--with a large anteroom for the convenience of the subscribers. the present reading-room will then be used for a reference library and students' consulting and reading-room. there are also a general reading-room, a working men's reading-room, and numerous apartments suitable for class-rooms and committee-rooms. the roof of the original building has been reconstructed and raised so as to form a suite of rooms 100-ft. long, 24-ft. wide, and 10-ft. high. lighted from the top these are specially adapted for the exhibition of objects of interest, pictures, or for a local museum. a convenient residence for the librarian is arranged in a separate building, which is extended so as to provide on the ground floor convenient rooms for the reception and storing of books and for the special work of the librarians. when the library was first removed to the assembly rooms, the premises were leased from the states, who had purchased them in 1870. subsequently, however, in december, 1883, messrs. guille and allès purchased the rooms from the states for £900 british, and afterwards bought from the parish the plot of land behind the rooms--which belonged to the rectory--and upon which they have now built the spacious new premises above-mentioned. as soon as these extensions are available, the founders purpose inaugurating comprehensive courses of popular illustrated lectures on physical science, economic products, natural history, microscopic science, literary subjects, &c., which will appeal at once to the eye and the understanding, and impart a large amount of very useful knowledge in an easy and agreeable way. there will also be classes in various subjects, including the french, german and italian languages, drawing, music, &c., &c., all of which will be open to girls as well as boys, women as well as men. in an island like guernsey, where from the smallness of the community many of the young people necessarily have to go and seek their fortunes abroad, the advantages for self-culture offered by an institution like this can scarcely be over-rated. the local facilities afforded for the acquisition of french are particularly marked, while it cannot for a moment be doubted that a young man or woman who can use both french and english with fluency, is much better equipped for the battle of life than is a person knowing only one of these languages. whatever intellectual needs may become apparent in the people, these the guille-allès library will set itself to supply. its founders, indeed, are especially anxious that there should be no hard and fast barriers about its settlement, which might cramp its expansion or fetter its usefulness. on the contrary they desire--while adhering, of course, to certain main lines of intellectual activity--to imbue it with such elasticity of adaptation as will enable it to successfully grapple with the changing necessities of changing times. the chief wants of to-day may not necessarily be the most pressing requisites of a century hence. therefore, one of the greatest essentials--and at the same time one of the greatest difficulties--in a foundation like this, is to provide for and combine within it such a fixity of principle and such an adaptability of administration as shall enable it to keep pace with the progress of the ages, and suit itself to the several requirements of succeeding generations as they pass. cost and endowment. the cost of carrying out this great enterprise--including the erection of buildings, purchase of books, fittings, &c.--has already amounted to between £15,000 and £20,000, and the outlay shows no signs of cessation. in addition to these expenses there is the endowment fund already referred to, and for this the munificent donors intend to set apart a sum to which the above amount bears but a small proportion. so that altogether the community will be indebted to them for an educational foundation worth a magnificent figure in money value alone, while besides this, we must not forget the long years of thoughtful care and of self-denying energy involved in maturing these splendid projects, or the healthy mental and moral stimulus which the conduct of these patriotic gentlemen has supplied. presentation of portraits. a very pleasing ceremony took place on wednesday, december 17th, 1884, at st. julian's hall, when his excellency major-general sarel, c.b., lieut.-governor, presented messrs. guille and allès with their portraits on behalf of a numerous body of subscribers resident in all parts of the island, and also in paris, new york, and brooklyn. a public meeting had been called on the 4th of february previous, when an influential committee was appointed; about £227 was speedily raised, and then mr. frank brooks was commissioned to paint two life-size portraits in oil, which gave great satisfaction when finished, and are now hung in the library. julius carey, esq., chief constable (mayor) of st. peter-port, as president of the portrait committee, opened the proceedings, by briefly narrating the circumstances which had called the meeting together. his excellency then, after a few preliminary remarks, said:- he must express the very great pleasure which he felt in being present on such an interesting occasion, when the whole community were testifying their appreciation of the noble library which had been founded for their benefit. indeed he felt it a great honour to have been asked to present these handsome portraits to messrs. guille and allès. it would not be necessary for him to dwell at any length on the antecedents of these gentlemen, who were well-known in the island. many years ago mr. guille went to the united states, and there he found the advantages which accrued from having access to a good library. he then conceived the idea of one day bestowing a similar boon upon his own native island, and this project he had been happily spared to carry out. during his exile the thought had remained ever with him; he had not allowed business to engross all his attention; and now that he had returned once more to settle down in the little rock-bound island-home of his youth, he was reducing to practice the beneficent plans of earlier years. he was not content to lead a life of ease with the produce of his industry, but he had founded an institution of incalculable value for the moral and intellectual welfare of the isle. then there was another large-hearted guernseyman, mr. allès, who determined that his old friend mr. guille should not be left to carry out his noble scheme alone. they had long been associated in business enterprises, and they were now linked in the higher bond of a common desire for the well-being of their fellow-citizens. all honour to them for it. the library told its own story and needed no encomium. all it wanted was constant readers and plenty of them, and he could not too strongly impress upon the people--and especially upon the rising generation--the immense advantages they would derive from availing themselves of its literary treasures. in conclusion, it simply remained for him, on behalf of the committee and the subscribers, to ask messrs. guille and allès to accept these paintings, which would show to future generations of guernseymen the form and features of two public benefactors who had deserved so well of their country and their kind. mr. guille, in response, gave a very interesting address in english, and mr. allès followed with an equally appropriate and practical speech in french, both gentlemen being received with prolonged applause, and listened to by the numerous assembly with the most interested attention. brief complimentary addresses were then delivered by edgar macculloch, esq., f.s.a., bailiff (chief magistrate) of guernsey, and by f.j. jeremie, esq., m.a., jurat of the royal court, and the proceedings terminated with a hearty vote of thanks to the lieut.-governor, proposed by the very rev. carey brock, m.a., dean of guernsey. a brass plate attached to mr. guille's portrait bears the following inscription:-presented to thomas guille, esq., by his numerous friends, in recognition of the great benefit he has conferred upon the inhabitants of his native island as one of the founders of the guille-allès library. guernsey, 17 december, 1884. a similar plate, bearing the name of mr. frederick mansell allès, is attached to his portrait. note.--the assembly rooms were built by private subscription in 1782, at a cost of about £2,500, and had therefore been in existence exactly a century when they passed into the hands of messrs. guille and allès in 1882. during this long period they were the fashionable _foyer_ of the island's festivity and gaiety, and formed the scene of many a brilliant gathering. * * * * * a. de gruchy & co. the oldest and largest house in the channel islands. established 1810. general drapery departments 50 and 52, king street, 2 and 6, king's arcade. _tailoring and gentlemen's_ outfitting departments 46 and 48, king street, and 1, king's arcade. furnishing department 50, king street, 10, king's arcade, and new street. furnishing ironmongery department 5, king's arcade. st. helier's, jersey. * * * * * guernsey. val-nord bank house classical and mathematical school mr. chamberlain, principal. mons. h. françois, french professor. miss lane, afternoon junior class. the object mr. chamberlain has in view is to supply a thoroughly liberal education. the general school course comprises biblical history, ancient history, the history and literature of our own country; the greek, latin and french languages; geometrical, isometrical, architectural and landscape drawing; euclid, algebra and trigonometry; navigation, geography and mapping; the use of the globes, both table and high-standing; land surveying, mensuration, book-keeping, english grammar, composition with précis-writing and analysis; and such branches of natural science as it may be practicable from time to time to introduce into the school teaching. the classification of the school, and the system adopted, secure all the advantages of emulation and honourable rivalry. the school of science department.--familiar lectures are given occasionally during the winter months on electricity, galvanism, magnetism, chemistry, telegraphy and printing. electricity.--is shown and explained by the use of a large plate glass electrifying machine, next in size smaller than the one at the royal polytechnic, with all the apparatus required. chemistry.--the elucidation of principles and the explanation of chemical phenomena are made as clear and concise as possible, by many experiments. magnetism.--this is so very instructive a branch of science that many experiments are well understood by the pupils, both in the use of the natural magnet and the electro-magnet. galvanism.--there are several galvanic batteries in use, so that the boys accustomed to them can readily apply a particular sort to any experiment. telegraphy.--communication is carried on at any distance chosen, or from one part of the house to another. printing.--this is likewise thoroughly explained by the use of a press and all the apparatus attached, including several cases of type. mr. chamberlain, having full command of the school of science department, is enabled, without engaging the services of professional men (who generally make a very high charge), to give suitable lectures without increasing the fees as contained below. parents will thus see that the lectures _being both amusing and instructive_ must be conducive to the _expansion of the mind_, at the same time making an _agreeable change_ in the general school routine. school fees: for pupils above 10 years of age 8 guineas per annum. " " under 10 " " 6 " " extras.--per annum. french 1 guinea. painting 6 guineas. drawing 4 guineas. music and german [transcriber's note: missing] hours from 9 to 12 a.m. and from 1 to 3 p.m. _three months' notice will be required previous to the removal of a pupil._ * * * * * just published. cruces and criticisms: an examination of certain passages in greek and latin texts. by william w. marshall, m.a., b.c.l., f.r.s.l., of the inner temple, formerly scholar of hertford college, oxford. demy 8vo., cloth 2s. 6d., paper covers 2s. london: elliot stock, 62, paternoster row, e.c. 1886. _by the same author._ plutarch's lives of the gracchi, translated from the text of sintenis, with introduction, marginal analysis, and appendices. by william w. marshall, b.a., of the inner temple, late scholar of hertford college, oxford. crown 8vo., paper covers, 1s. 6d., or cloth, 2s. oxford, james thornton. 1881. "mr. marshall has succeeded in cutting out of plutarch a very neat piece of biography and presenting it in a pleasant english dress, with a careful introduction and a few useful appendices. the english is the editor's, and is very agreeable reading. the introduction is a clever account of plutarch, with a critical notice of his work, his merits, and his inaccuracies, together with a summary sketch of the affairs of rome when the gracchi came into notice. the student of roman history will be glad of this small, but carefully edited, account of the two brethren."--_school guardian._ the latin prayer book of charles ii.; or, an account of the "liturgia" of dean durel, together with a reprint and translation of the catechism therein contained, with collations, annotations, and appendices, by the late rev. charles marshall, m.a., rector of harpurhey; and william w. marshall, b.a. demy 8vo. cloth. 1882. a few remaining copies may be obtained from thomas fargie, 21, st. ann's square, manchester. price, 7s. 6d. the late very rev. j.s. howson, d.d., dean of chester, writes (july 9, 1883):- "i have much pleasure in stating that i regard the work of mr. marshall and his son upon the latin prayer book of charles ii. as a publication of great importance. the volume has been of much use to me personally; and i believe its value will be felt by all who study it candidly and carefully." "a liturgical, historical, and theological work of great value, creditable alike to the care, industry, and scholarly attainments of the editors. no clergyman should engage in liturgical controversy without consulting its pages."--_church advocate_. favourably reviewed also by _the british quarterly review_, _literary world_, _churchman_, _record_, _clergyman's magazine_, _rock_, _manchester guardian_, _liverpool daily courier_, _chorley guardian_, _liverpool albion_, &c., &c. * * * * * h.m. stickland, bookseller, stationer, printer bookbinder, &c., 43, high street, guernsey. bookseller and stationer by appointment to elizabeth college and the ladies' college. photographic views (in all sizes) of the channel islands. depot of the society for promoting christian knowledge circulating library. * * * * * stickland & co., _(established 1840),_ wine and spirit importers grange, guernsey. sole agents for messrs. thos. salt & co.'s east india and burton ales. guinness & co.'s dublin stout _wines exported with the greatest care, in parcels of not less than three dozen._ * * * * * the beresford library jersey. this library was established in 1848, and it now contains upwards of 10,000 volumes. an examination of the contents of the catalogue will go far to shew that it may be compared favourably with any provincial circulating library in the kingdom. the price of the catalogue (300 pages) is sixpence. c. le feuvre, beresford street _jersey._ _december, 1885._ * * * * * nouvelle chronique de jersey (established 1855), published wednesdays and saturdays 8s. per annum, or by post 12s. 6d., circulates throughout jersey, and is well known in the united kingdom, canada, the united states, and the colonies. the importance of this journal as an advertising medium is unquestionable. huelin & le feuvre, proprietors. office: 11, royal square, jersey. p.s.--at this office may be had also the popular works, entitled "le souvenir du centenaire de la bataille de jersey," and the "guide historique et descriptif de l'ile," by j. le bas. * * * * * r. hartwell's pianoforte, harmonium and music warehouse, 16, smith street, guernsey. (established 1830). pianofortes sold on the three years' system of purchase. agent for high-class english and foreign pianofortes. messrs. john broadwood & sons' pianofortes. collard & collard's new metal-framed pianofortes. messrs. j. & p. schiedmayer's iron-framed pianofortes. _sole local agency for_ george rogers & sons' iron-framed pianofortes, fitted with best paris made french actions. harmoniums in walnut wood cases from £7 7s. trayser's powerful toned harmoniums, of superior construction, suitable for use in chapels. price £38. old and choice violins kept in stock. guitars, flutes, drums, banjos and other instruments on sale. * * * * * masonry and ashlar work. [illustration] james le page, general contractor for masonry, ashlar and brick work, rose cottage, ozouëts, guernsey. _best tested portland cement, patent drain pipes, &c., &c._ all kinds of granite and other monumental and tomb work executed. letter cutting, &c., by skilled workmen, at moderate charges. important to farmers and livery stable proprietors. staffordshire _stable paving bricks_ most suitable for cattle, &c. these bricks are made expressly for stables, so as to allow free and perfect drainage. specimens on application to j. le page, contractor, ozouëts. * * * * * when it is considered that the liver is one of the most important organs in eliminating from the system the vitiated matter which accumulates in unhealthy persons, the value of cumber's podophyllin and _colocynth pills_ will at once be manifest. podophyllin is an american remedy of comparatively recent introduction, but which has rapidly made its way to the foremost place in the treatment of liver complaints. colocynth, on the other hand, has according to orfila, a specific stimulant influence over the large intestines. the combination of these two drugs forms a valuable medicine in the treatment of complaints arising from disorders of the liver and bowels, such as: furred tongue, disagreeable taste in the mouth, headache, giddiness, general lassitude, pains in the back--especially under the shoulder blade--and irregular action of the bowels and other excretory organs. moreover these medicines are made up into very small sized pills, which are covered with a tasteless pearly white film, and they will be found a most useful family medicine for both sexes. sold in boxes at 6d. and 1s., by h. cumber, jun., 4, fountain street guernsey. * * * * * guille-allès library series. edited by j. linwood pitts. _recently published_. the patois poems of the channel islands (first series), the norman-french text, with parallel english translation, historical introduction and notes. demy 8vo. in paper covers, or cloth gilt. the patois poems of the channel islands (second series), the norman-french text, with parallel english translation, philological introduction and historic notes. demy 8vo. in paper covers, or cloth gilt. the sermon on the mount, and the parable of the sower, translated into the franco-norman dialect of guernsey, from the french of le maistre de sacy, by george métivier; to which is added a sark version of the parable of the sower; with parallel french and english versions. demy 16mo. cloth gilt. witchcraft and devil lore in the channel islands, transcripts and translations of the depositions and confessions made in the most celebrated of the local trials for witchcraft, as preserved in the official records of the guernsey royal court, with historical introduction. demy 8vo. in paper covers. _in preparation._ the précepte d'assise of the island of guernsey: comprising the ancient norman-french text, edited with parallel english translation, historical introduction, analysis, glossary and notes; engravings of seals, signatures, &c. choice excerpts from the roman de rou, by robert wace, of jersey, the famous norman trouvère and chronicler, who flourished in the twelfth century; with parallel english translation and historic notes. the descent of the saragousais.--a reprint of the old norman ballad--including the rare additional verses--with english translation and historic notes. this ebook was produced by david widger <widger@cecomet.net> the battle of the strong [a romance of two kingdoms] by gilbert parker volume 2. chapter x as ranulph had surmised, the ship was the narcissus, and its first lieutenant was philip d'avranche. the night before, orders had reached the vessel from the admiralty that soundings were to be taken at the ecrehos. the captain had at once made inquiries for a pilot, and jean touzel was commended to him. a messenger sent to jean found that he had already gone to the ecrehos. the captain had then set sail, and now, under jean's skilful pilotage, the narcissus twisted and crept through the teeth of the rocks at the entrance, and slowly into the cove, reefs on either side gaping and girding at her, her keel all but scraping the serrated granite beneath. she anchored, and boats put off to take soundings and explore the shores. philip was rowed in by jean touzel. stepping out upon the beach of mattre 'ile, philip slowly made his way over the shingle to the ruined chapel, in no good humour with himself or with the world, for exploring these barren rocks seemed a useless whim of the admiralty, and he could not conceive of any incident rising from the monotony of duty to lighten the darkness of this very brilliant day. his was not the nature to enjoy the stony detail of his profession. excitement and adventure were as the breath of life to him, and since he had played his little part at the jersey battle in a bandbox eleven years before, he had touched hands with accidents of flood and field in many countries. he had been wrecked on the island of trinidad in a tornado, losing his captain and his ship; had seen active service in america and in india; won distinction off the coast of arabia in an engagement with spanish cruisers; and was now waiting for his papers as commander of a ship of his own, and fretted because the road of fame and promotion was so toilsome. rumours of war with france had set his blood dancing a little, but for him most things were robbed of half their pleasure because they did not come at once. this was a moody day with him, for he had looked to spend it differently. as he walked up the shingle his thoughts were hanging about a cottage in the place du vier prison. he had hoped to loiter in a doorway there, and to empty his sailor's heart in well-practised admiration before the altar of village beauty. the sight of guida's face the day before had given a poignant pulse to his emotions, unlike the broken rhythm of past comedies of sentiment and melodramas of passion. according to all logic of custom, the acuteness of yesterday's impression should have been followed up by today's attack; yet here he was, like another robinson crusoe, "kicking up the shingle of a cursed patmos"--so he grumbled aloud. patmos was not so wild a shot after all, for no sooner had he spoken the word than, looking up, he saw in the doorway of the ruined chapel the gracious figure of a girl: and a book of revelations was opened and begun. at first he did not recognise guida. there was only a picture before him which, by some fantastic transmission, merged into his reveries. what he saw was an ancient building--just such a humble pile of stone and rough mortar as one might see on some lone cliff of the aegean or on abandoned isles of the equatorial sea. the gloom of a windowless vault was behind the girl, but the filtered sunshine of late september fell on her head. it brightened the white kerchief, and the bodice and skirt of a faint pink, throwing the face into a pleasing shadow where the hand curved over the forehead. she stood like some diana of a ruined temple looking out into the staring day. at once his pulses beat faster, for to him a woman was ever the fountain of adventure, and an unmanageable heart sent him headlong to the oasis where he might loiter at the spring of feminine vanity, or truth, or impenitent gaiety, as the case might be. in proportion as his spirits had sunk into sour reflection, they now shot up rocket-high at the sight of a girl's joyous pose of body and the colour and form of the picture she made. in him the shrewdness of a strong intelligence was mingled with wild impulse. in most, rashness would be the outcome of such a marriage of characteristics; but clear-sightedness, decision, and a little unscrupulousness had carried into success many daring actions of his life. this very quality of resolute daring saved him from disaster. impulse quickened his footsteps now. it quickened them to a run when the hand was dropped from the girl's forehead, and he saw again the face whose image and influence had banished sleep from his eyes the night before. "guida!" broke from his lips. the man was transfigured. brightness leaped into his look, and the greyness of his moody eye became as blue as the sea. the professional straightness of his figure relaxed into the elastic grace of an athlete. he was a pipe to be played on: an actor with the ambitious brain of a diplomatist; as weak as water, and as strong as steel; soft-hearted to foolishness or unyielding at will. now, if the devil had sent a wise imp to have watch and ward of this man and this maid, and report to him upon the meeting of their ways, the moment philip took guida's hand, and her eyes met his, monsieur the reporter of hades might have clapped-to his book and gone back to his dark master with the message and the record: "the hour of destiny is struck." when the tide of life beats high in two mortals, and they meet in the moment of its apogee, when all the nature is sweeping on without command, guilelessly, yet thoughtlessly, the mere lilt of existence lulling to sleep wisdom and tried experience--speculation points all one way. many indeed have been caught away by such a conjunction of tides, and they mostly pay the price. but paying is part of the game of life: it is the joy of buying that we crave. go down into the dark markets of the town. see the long, narrow, sordid streets lined with the cheap commodities of the poor. mark how there is a sort of spangled gaiety, a reckless swing, a grinning exultation in the grimy, sordid caravanserai. the cheap colours of the shoddy open-air clothing-house, the blank faded green of the coster's cart; the dark bluish-red of the butcher's stall--they all take on a value not their own in the garish lights flaring down the markets of the dusk. pause to the shrill music of the street musician, hear the tuneless voice of the grimy troubadour of the alley-ways; and then hark to the one note that commands them all--the call which lightens up faces sodden with base vices, eyes bleared with long looking into the dark caverns of crime: "buy--buy--buy--buy--buy!" that is the tune the piper pipes. we would buy, and behold, we must pay. then the lights go out, the voices stop, and only the dark tumultuous streets surround us, and the grime of life is ours again. whereupon we go heavily to hard beds of despair, having eaten the cake we bought, and now must pay for unto penalty, the dark inordinate creditor. and anon the morning comes, and then, at last, the evening when the triste bazaars open again, and the strong of heart and nerve move not from their doorways, but sit still in the dusk to watch the grim world go by. but mostly they hurry out to the bazaars once more, answering to the fevered call: "buy--buy--buy--buy--buy!" and again they pay the price: and so on to the last foreclosure and the immitigable end. one of the two standing in the door of the ruined chapel on the ecrehos had the nature of those who buy but once and pay the price but once; the other was of those who keep open accounts in the markets of life. the one was the woman and the other was the man. there was nothing conventional in their greeting. "you remembered me!" he said eagerly, in english, thinking of yesterday. "i shouldn't deserve to be here if i had forgotten," she answered meaningly. "perhaps you forget the sword of the turk?" she added. he laughed a little, his cheek flushed with pleasure. "i shouldn't deserve to be here if i remembered--in the way you mean," he answered. her face was full of pleasure. "the worst of it is," she said, "i never can pay my debt. i have owed it for eleven years, and if i should live to be ninety i should still owe it." his heart was beating hard and he became daring. "so, thou shalt save my life," he said, speaking in french. "we shall be quits then, thou and i." the familiar french thou startled her. to hide the instant's confusion she turned her head away, using a hand to gather in her hair, which the wind was lifting lightly. "that wouldn't quite make us quits," she rejoined; "your life is important, mine isn't. you"--she nodded towards the narcissus--"you command men." "so dost thou," he answered, persisting in the endearing pronoun. he meant it to be endearing. as he had sailed up and down the world, a hundred ports had offered him a hundred adventures, all light in the scales of purpose, but not all bad. he had gossiped and idled and coquetted with beauty before; but this was different, because the nature of the girl was different from all others he had met. it had mostly been lightly come and lightly go with himself, as with the women it had been easily won and easily loosed. conscience had not smitten him hard, because beauty, as he had known it, though often fair and of good report, had bloomed for others before he came. but here was a nature fresh and unspoiled from the hand of the potter life. as her head slightly turned from him again, he involuntarily noticed the pulse beating in her neck, the rise and fall of her bosom. life--here was life unpoisoned by one drop of ill thought or light experience. "thou dost command men too," he repeated. she stepped forward a little from the doorway and beyond him, answering back at him: "oh, no, i only knit, and keep a garden, and command a little home, that's all. . . . won't you let me show you the island?" she added quickly, pointing to a hillock beyond, and moving towards it. he followed, speaking over her shoulder: "that's what you seem to do," he answered, "not what you do." then he added rhetorically: "i've seen a man polishing the buckle of his shoe, and he was planning to take a city or manoeuvre a fleet." she noticed that he had dropped the thou, and, much as its use had embarrassed her, the gap left when the boldness was withdrawn became filled with regret, for, though no one had dared to say it to her before, somehow it seemed not rude on philip's lips. philip? yes, philip she had called him in her childhood, and the name had been carried on into her girlhood--he had always been philip to her. "no, girls don't think like that, and they don't do big things," she replied. "when i polish the pans"--she laughed--"and when i scour my buckles, i just think of pans and buckles." she tossed up her fingers lightly, with a perfect charm of archness. he was very close to her now. "but girls have dreams, they have memories." "if women hadn't memory," she answered, "they wouldn't have much, would they? we can't take cities and manoeuvre fleets." she laughed a little ironically. "i wonder that we think at all or have anything to think about, except the kitchen and the garden, and baking and scouring and spinning"--she paused slightly, her voice lowered a little--"and the sea, and the work that men do round us. . . . do you ever go into a market?" she added suddenly. somehow she could talk easily and naturally to him. there had been no leading up to confidence. she felt a sudden impulse to tell him all her thoughts. to know things, to understand, was a passion with her. it seemed to obliterate in her all that was conventional, it removed her far from sensitive egotism. already she had begun "to take notice" in the world, and that is like being born again. as it grows, life ceases to be cliche; and when the taking notice is supreme we call it genius; and genius is simple and believing: it has no pride, it is naive, it is childlike. philip seemed to wear no mark of convention, and guida spoke her thoughts freely to him. "to go into a market seems to me so wonderful," she continued. "there are the cattle, the fruits, the vegetables, the flowers, the fish, the wood; the linen from the loom, the clothes that women's fingers have knitted. but it isn't just those things that you see, it's all that's behind them--the houses, the fields, and the boats at sea, and the men and women working and working, and sleeping and eating, and breaking their hearts with misery, and wondering what is to be the end of it all; yet praying a little, it may be, and dreaming a little--perhaps a very little." she sighed, and continued: "that's as far as i get with thinking. what else can one do in this little island? why, on the globe maitre damian has at st. aubin's, jersey is no bigger than the head of a pin. and what should one think of here?" her eyes were on the sea. its mystery was in them, the distance, the ebb and flow, the light of wonder and of adventure too. "you--you've been everywhere," she went on. "do you remember you sent me once from malta a tiny silver cross? that was years ago, soon after the battle of jersey, when i was a little bit of a girl. well, after i got big enough i used to find malta and other places on maitre damian's globe. i've lived always there, on that spot"--she pointed towards jersey--"on that spot one could walk round in a day. what do i know! you've been everywhere --everywhere. when you look back you've got a thousand pictures in your mind. you've seen great cities, temples, palaces, great armies, fleets; you've done things: you've fought and you've commanded, though you're so young, and you've learned about men and about many countries. look at what you know, and then, if you only think, you'll laugh at what i know." for a moment he was puzzled what to answer. the revelation of the girl's nature had come so quickly upon him. he had looked for freshness, sweetness, intelligence, and warmth of temperament, but it seemed to him that here were flashes of power. yet she was only seventeen. she had been taught to see things with her own eyes and not another's, and she spoke of them as she saw them; that was all. yet never but to her mother had guida said so much to any human being as within these past few moments to philip d'avranche. the conditions were almost maliciously favourable, and d'avranche was simple and easy as a boy, with his sailor's bonhomie and his naturally facile spirit. a fateful adaptability was his greatest weapon in life, and his greatest danger. he saw that guida herself was unconscious of the revelation she was making, and he showed no surprise, but he caught the note of her simplicity, and responded in kind. he flattered her deftly--not that she was pressed unduly, he was too wise for that. he took her seriously; and this was not all dissimulation, for her every word had glamour, and he now exalted her intellect unduly. he had never met girl or woman who talked just as she did; and straightway, with the wild eloquence of his nature, he thought he had discovered a new heaven and a new earth. a spell was upon him. he knew what he wanted when he saw it. he had always made up his mind suddenly, always acted on the intelligent impulse of the moment. he felt things, he did not study them--it was almost a woman's instinct. he came by a leap to the goal of purpose, not by the toilsome steps of reason. on the instant his headlong spirit declared his purpose: this was the one being for him in all the world: at this altar he would light a lamp of devotion, and keep it burning forever. "this is my day," he said to himself. "i always knew that love would come down on me like a storm." then, aloud, he said to her: "i wish i knew what you know; but i can't, because my mind is different, my life has been different. when you go into the world and see a great deal, and loosen a little the strings of your principles, and watch how sins and virtues contradict themselves, you see things after a while in a kind of mist. but you, guida, you see them clearly because your heart is clear. you never make a mistake, you are always right because your mind is right." she interrupted him, a little troubled and a good deal amazed: "oh, you mustn't, mustn't speak like that. it's not so. how can one see and learn unless one sees and knows the world? surely one can't think wisely if one doesn't see widely?" he changed his tactics instantly. the world--that was the thing? well, then, she should see the world, through him, with him. "yes, yes, you're right," he answered. "you can't know things unless you see widely. you must see the world. this island, what is it? i was born here, don't i know! it's a foothold in the world, but it's no more; it's not afield to walk in, why, it's not even a garden. no, it's the little patch of green we play in in front of a house, behind the railings, before we go out into the world and learn how to live." they had now reached the highest point on the island, where a flagstaff stood. guida was looking far beyond jersey to the horizon line. there was little haze, the sky was inviolably blue. far off against the horizon lay the low black rocks of the minquiers. they seemed to her, on the instant, like stepping-stones. beyond would be other steppingstones, and others and others still again, and they would all mark the way and lead to what philip called the world. the world! she felt a sudden little twist of regret at her heart. here she was like a cow grazing within the circle of its tether--like a lax caterpillar on its blade of grass. yet it had all seemed so good to her in the past; broken only by little bursts of wonder and wish concerning that outside world. "do we ever learn how to live?" she asked. "don't we just go on from one thing to another, picking our way, but never knowing quite what to do, because we don't know what's ahead? i believe we never do learn how to live," she added, half-smiling, yet a little pensive too; "but i am so very ignorant, and--" she stopped, for suddenly it flashed upon her: here she was baring her childish heart--he would think it childish, she was sure he would-everything she thought, to a man she had never known till to-day. no, no, she was wrong; she had known him, but it was only as philip, the boy who had saved her life. and the philip of her memory was only a picture, not a being; something to think about, not something to speak with, to whom she might show her heart. she flushed hotly and turned her shoulder on him. her eyes followed a lizard creeping up the stones. as long as she lived she remembered that lizard, its colour changing in the sun. she remembered the hot stones, and how warm the flag-staff was when she stretched out her hand to it mechanically. but the swift, noiseless lizard running in and out of the stones, it was ever afterwards like a coat-of-arms upon the shield of her life. philip came close to her. at first he spoke over her shoulder, then he faced her. his words forced her eyes up to his, and he held them. "yes, yes, we learn how to live," he said. "it's only when we travel alone that we don't see before us. i will teach you how to live--we will learn the way together! guida! guida!"--he reached out his hands to wards her--"don't start so! listen to me. i feel for you what i have felt for no other being in all my life. it came upon me yesterday when i saw you in the window at the vier prison. i didn't understand it. all night i walked the deck thinking of you. to-day as soon as i saw your face, as soon as i touched your hand, i knew what it was, and--" he attempted to take her hand now. "oh, no, no!" she exclaimed, and drew back as if terrified. "you need not fear me," he burst out. "for now i know that i have but two things to live for: for my work"--he pointed to the narcissus--"and for you. you are frightened of me? why, i want to have the right to protect you, to drive away all fear from your life. you shall be the garden and i shall be the wall; you the nest and i the rock; you the breath of life and i the body that breathes it. guida, my guida, i love you!" she drew back, leaning against the stones, her eyes riveted upon his, and she spoke scarcely above a whisper. "it is not true--it is not true. you've known me only for one day--only for one hour. how can you say it!" there was a tumult in her breast; her eyes shone and glistened; wonder, embarrassed yet happy wonder, looked at him from her face, which was touched with an appealing, as of the heart that dares not believe and yet must believe or suffer. "it is madness," she added. "it is not true--how can it be true!" yet it all had the look of reality--the voice had the right ring, the face had truth, the bearing was gallant; the force and power of the man overwhelmed her. she reached out her hand tremblingly as though to push him back. "it cannot be true," she said. "to think--in one day!" "it is true," he answered, "true as that i stand here. one day--it is not one day. i knew you years ago. the seed was sown then, the flower springs up to-day, that is all. you think i can't know that it is love i feel for you? it is admiration; it is faith; it is desire too; but it is love. when you see a flower in a garden, do you not know at once if you like it or no? don't you know the moment you look on a landscape, on a splendid building, whether it is beautiful to you? if, then, with these things one knows--these that haven't any speech, no life like yours or mine--how much more when it is a girl with a face like yours, when it is a mind noble like yours, when it is a touch that thrills, and a voice that drowns the heart in music! guida, believe that i speak the truth. i know, i swear, that you are the one passion, the one love of my life. all others would be as nothing, so long as you live, and i live to look upon you, to be beside you." "beside me!" she broke in, with an incredulous irony fain to be contradicted, "a girl in a village, poor, knowing nothing, seeing no farther"--she looked out towards jersey--"seeing no farther than the little cottage in the little country where i was born." "but you shall see more," he said, "you shall see all, feel all, if you will but listen to me. don't deny me what is life and breathing and hope to me. i'll show you the world; i'll take you where you may see and know. we will learn it all together. i shall succeed in life. i shall go far. i've needed one thing to make me do my best for some one's sake beside my own; you will make me do it for your sake. your ancestors were great people in france; and you know that mine, centuries ago, were great also--that the d'avranches were a noble family in france. you and i will win our place as high as the best of them. in this war that's coming between england and france is my chance. nelson said to me the other day--you have heard of him, of young captain nelson, the man they're pointing to in the fleet as the one man of them all?--he said to me: 'we shall have our chance now, d'avranche.' and we shall. i have wanted it till to-day for my own selfish ambition--now i want it for you. when i landed on this islet a half-hour ago, i hated it, i hated my ship, i hated my duty, i hated everything, because i wanted to go where you were, to be with you. it was destiny that brought us both to this place at one moment. you can't escape destiny. it was to be that i should love you, guida." he reached out to take her hands, but she put them behind her against the stones, and drew back. the lizard suddenly shot out from a hole and crossed over her fingers. she started, shivered at the cold touch, and caught the hand away. a sense of foreboding awaked in her, and her eyes followed the lizard's swift travel with a strange fascination. but she lifted them to philip's, and the fear and premonition passed. "oh, my brain is in a whirl!" she said. "i do not understand. i know so little. no one has ever spoken to me as you have done. you would not dare"--she leaned forward a little, looking into his face with that unwavering gaze which was the best sign of her straight-forward mind-"you would not dare to deceive--you would not dare. i have--no mother," she added with simple pathos. the moisture came into his eyes. he must have been stone not to be touched by the appealing, by the tender inquisition, of that look. "guida," he said impetuously, "if i deceive you, may every fruit of life turn to dust and ashes in my mouth! if ever i deceive you, may i die a black, dishonourable death, abandoned and alone! i should deserve that if i deceived you, guida." for the first time since he had spoken she smiled, yet her eyes filled with tears too. "you will let me tell you that i love you, guida--it is all i ask now: that you will listen to me?" she sighed, but did not answer. she kept looking at him, looking as though she would read his inmost soul. her face was very young, though the eyes were so wise in their simplicity. "you will give me my chance--you will listen to me, guida, and try to understand--and be glad?" he asked, leaning closer to her and holding out his hands. she drew herself up slightly as with an air of relief and resolve. she put a hand in his. "i will try to understand--and be glad," she answered. "won't you call me philip?" he said. the same slight, mischievous smile crossed her lips now as eleven years ago in the rue d'egypte, and recalling that moment, she replied: "yes, sir--philip!" at that instant the figure of a man appeared on the shingle beneath, looking up towards them. they did not see him. guida's hand was still in philip's. the man looked at them for a moment, then started and turned away. it was ranulph delagarde. they heard his feet upon the shingle now. they turned and looked; and guida withdrew her hand. chapter xi there are moments when a kind of curtain seems dropped over the brain, covering it, smothering it, while yet the body and its nerves are tingling with sensation. it is like the fire-curtain of a theatre let down between the stage and the audience, a merciful intervention between the mind and the disaster which would consume it. as the years had gone on maitre ranulph's nature had grown more powerful, and his outdoor occupation had enlarged and steadied his physical forces. his trouble now was in proportion to the force of his character. the sight of guida and philip hand in hand, the tender attitude, the light in their faces, was overwhelming and unaccountable. yesterday these two were strangers--to-day it was plain to be seen they were lovers, and lovers who had reached a point of confidence and revelation. nothing in the situation tallied with ranulph's ideas of guida and his knowledge of life. he had, as one might say, been eye to eye with this girl for fifteen years: he had told his love for her in a thousand little ways, as the ant builds its heap to a pyramid that becomes a thousand times greater than itself. he had followed her footsteps, he had fetched and carried, he had served afar off, he had ministered within the gates. he had, unknown to her, watched like the keeper of the house over all who came and went, neither envious nor over-zealous, neither intrusive nor neglectful; leaving here a word and there an act to prove himself, above all, the friend whom she could trust, and, in all, the lover whom she might wake to know and reward. he had waited with patience, hoping stubbornly that she might come to put her hand in his one day. long ago he would have left the island to widen his knowledge, earn experience in his craft, or follow a career in the army--he had been an expert gunner when he served in the artillery four years ago--and hammer out fame upon the anvils of fortune in england or in france; but he had stayed here that he might be near her. his love had been simple, it had been direct, and wise in its consistent reserve. he had been selfobliterating. his love desired only to make her happy: most lovers desire that they themselves shall be made happy. because of the crime his father committed years ago--because of the shame of that hidden crime--he had tried the more to make himself a good citizen, and had formed the modest ambition of making one human being happy. always keeping this near him in past years, a supreme cheerfulness of heart had welled up out of his early sufferings and his innate honesty. hope had beckoned him on from year to year, until it seemed at last that the time had almost come when he might speak, might tell her all--his father's crime and the manner of his father's death; of his own devoted purpose in trying to expiate that crime by his own uprightness; and of his love for her. now, all in a minute, his horizon was blackened. this adventurous gallant, this squire of dames, had done in a day what he had worked, step by step, to do through all these years. this skipping seafarer, with his powder and lace, his cocked hat and gold-handled sword, had whistled at the gates which he had guarded and by which he had prayed, and all in a minute every defence had been thrown down, and guida--his own guida--had welcomed the invader with shameless eagerness. he crossed the islet slowly. it seemed to him--and for a moment it was the only thing of which he was conscious--that the heels of his boots shrieked in the shingle, and with every step he was raising an immense weight. he paused behind the chapel. after a little the smother lifted slowly from his brain. "i'll believe in her still," he said aloud. "it's all his cursed tongue. as a boy he could make every other boy do what he wanted because his tongue knows how to twist words. she's been used to honest people; he's talked a new language to her--tricks caught in his travels. but she shall know the truth. she shall find out what sort of a man he is. i'll make her see under his pretty foolings." he turned, and leaned against the wall of the chapel. "guida, guida," he said, speaking as if she were there before him, "you won't--you won't go to him, and spoil your life, and mine too. guida, ma couzaine, you'll stay here, in the land of your birth. you'll make your home here--here with me, ma chere couzaine. ah, but then you shall be my wife in spite of him, in spite of a thousand philip d'avranches!" he drew himself up firmly, for a great resolve was made. his path was clear. it was a fair fight, he thought; the odds were not so much against him after all, for his birth was as good as philip d'avranche's, his energy was greater, and he was as capable and as clever in his own way. he walked quickly down the shingle towards the wreck on the other side of the islet. as he passed the hut where the sick man lay, he heard a querulous voice. it was not that of the reverend lorenzo dow. where had he heard that voice before? a shiver of fear ran through him. every sense and emotion in him was arrested. his life seemed to reel backward. curtain after curtain of the past unfolded. he hurried to the door of the hut and looked in. a man with long white hair and straggling grey beard turned to him a haggard face, on which were written suffering, outlawry, and evil. "great god--my father!" ranulph said. he drew back slowly like a man who gazes upon some horrible fascinating thing, and then turned heavily towards the sea, his face set, his senses paralysed. "my father not dead! my father--the traitor!" he groaned. chapter xii philip d'avranche sauntered slowly through the vier marchi, nodding right and left to people who greeted him. it was saturday and market day in jersey. the square was crowded with people. all was a cheerful babel; there was movement, colour everywhere. here were the high and the humble, hardi vlon and hardi biaou--the ugly and the beautiful, the dwarfed and the tall, the dandy and the dowdy, the miser and the spendthrift; young ladies gay in silks, laces, and scarfs from spain, and gentlemen with powdered wigs from paris; sailors with red tunics from the mediterranean, and fishermen with blue and purple blouses from brazil; man-o'-war's-men with greek petticoats, turkish fezzes, and portuguese espadras. jersey housewives, in bedgones and white caps, with molleton dresses rolled up to the knees, pushed their way through the crowd, jars of black butter, or jugs of cinnamon brandy on their heads. from la pyramide--the hospitable base of the statue of king george ii--fishwives called the merits of their conger-eels and ormers; and the clatter of a thousand sabots made the vier marchi sound like a ship-builder's yard. in this square philip had loitered and played as a child. down there, leaning against a pillar of the corn market piazza was elie mattingley, the grizzly-haired seller of foreign silks and droll odds and ends, who had given him a silver flageolet when he was a little lad. there were the same swaggering manners, the big gold rings in his ears; there was the same red sash about the waist, the loose unbuttoned shirt, the truculent knifebelt; there were the same keen brown eyes looking you through and through, and the mouth with a middle tooth in both jaws gone. elie mattingley, pirate, smuggler, and sometime master of a privateer, had had dealings with people high and low in the island, and they had not always, nor often, been conducted in the open vier marchi. fifteen years ago he used to have his little daughter carterette always beside him when he sold his wares. philip wondered what had become of her. he glanced round. . . . ah, there she was, not far from her father, over in front of the guard-house, selling, at a little counter with a canopy of yellow silk (brought by her father from that distant land called piracy), mogues of hot soupe a la graisse, simnels, curds, coffee, and jersey wonders, which last she made on the spot by dipping the little rings of dough in a bashin of lard on a charcoal fire at her side. carterette was short and spare, with soft yet snapping eyes as black as night--or her hair; with a warm, dusky skin, a tongue which clattered pleasantly, and very often wisely. she had a hand as small and plump as a baby's, and a pretty foot which, to the disgust of some mothers and maidens of greater degree, was encased in a red french slipper, instead of the wooden sabot stuffed with straw, while her ankles were nicely dressed in soft black stockings, in place of the woolen native hose, as became her station. philip watched carterette now for a moment, a dozen laughing memories coming back to him; for he had teased her and played with her when she was a child, had even called her his little sweetheart. looking at her he wondered what her fate would be: to marry one of these fishermen or carters? no, she would look beyond that. perhaps it would be one of those adventurers in bearskin cap and buckskin vest, home from gaspe, where they had toiled in the great fisheries, some as common fishermen, some as mates and maybe one or two as masters. no, she would look beyond that. perhaps she would be carried off by one of those well-to-do, black-bearded young farmers in the red knitted queminzolle, blue breeches, and black cocked hat, with his kegs of cider and bunches of parsley. that was more likely, for among the people there was every prejudice in her favour. she was jersey born, her father was reputed to have laid by a goodly sum of money--not all got in this vier marchi; and that he was a smuggler and pirate roused a sentiment in their bosoms nearer to envy than aught else. go away naked and come back clothed, empty and come back filled, simple and come back with a wink of knowledge, penniless and come back with the price of numerous vergees of land, and you might answer the island catechism without fear. be lambs in jersey, but harry the rest of the world with a lion's tooth, was the eleventh commandment in the vier marchi. yes, thought philip idly now, as he left the square, the girl would probably marry a rich farmer, and when he came again he should find her stout of body, and maybe shrewish of face, crying up the virtues of her black butter and her knitted stockings, having made the yellow silk canopy above her there into a gorgeous quilt for the nuptial bed. yet the young farmers who hovered near her now, buying a glass of cider or a mogue of soup, received but scant notice. she laughed with them, treated them lightly, and went about her business again with a toss of the head. not once did she show a moment's real interest, not until a fine upstanding fellow came round the corner from the rue des vignes, and passed her booth. she was dipping a doughnut into the boiling lard, but she paused with it suspended. the little dark face took on a warm glow, the eyes glistened. "maitre ranulph!" called the girl softly. then as the tall fellow turned to her and lifted his cap she added briskly: "where away so fast with face hard as hatchet?" "garcon cart'rette!" he said abstractedly--he had always called her that. he was about to move on. she frowned in vexation, yet she saw that he was pale and heavy-eyed, and she beckoned him to come to her. "what's gone wrong, big wood-worm?" she said, eyeing him closely, and striving anxiously to read his face. he looked at her sharply, but the softness in her black eyes somehow reassured him, and he said quite kindly: "nannin, 'tite garcon, nothing's matter." "i thought you'd be blithe as a sparrow with your father back from the grave!" then as ranulph's face seemed to darken, she added: "he's not worse--he's not worse?" "no, no, he's well enough now," he said, forcing a smile. she was not satisfied, but she went on talking, intent to find the cause of his abstraction. "only to think," she said--"only to think that he wasn't killed at all at the battle of jersey, and was a prisoner in france, and comes back here--and we all thought him dead, didn't we?" "i left him for dead that morning on the grouville road," he answered. then, as if with a great effort, and after the manner of one who has learned a part, he went on: "as the french ran away mad, paw of one on tail of other, they found him trying to drag himself along. they nabbed him, and carried him aboard their boats to pilot them out from the rocque platte, and over to france. then because they hadn't gobbled us up here, what did the french gover'ment do? they clapped a lot of 'em in irons and sent 'em away to south america, and my father with 'em. that's why we heard neither click nor clack of him all this time. he broke free a year ago. then he fell sick. when he got well he set sail for jersey, was wrecked off the ecrehos, and everybody knows the rest. diantre, he's had a hard time!" the girl had listened intently. she had heard all these things in flying rumours, and she had believed the rumours; but now that maitre ranulph told her--ranulph, whose word she would have taken quicker than the oath of a jurat--she doubted. with the doubt her face flushed as though she herself had been caught in a lie, had done a mean thing. somehow her heart was aching for him, she knew not why. all this time she had held the doughnut poised; she seemed to have forgotten her work. suddenly the wooden fork holding the cake was taken from her fingers by the daft dormy jamais who had crept near. "des monz a fou," said he, "to spoil good eating so! what says fishingman: when sails flap, owner may whistle for cargo. tut, tut, goose carterette!" carterette took no note, but said to ranulph: "of course he had to pilot the frenchmen back, or they'd have killed him, and it'd done no good to refuse. he was the first man that fought the french on the day of the battle, wasn't he? i've always heard that." unconsciously she was building up a defence for olivier delagarde. she was, as it were, anticipating insinuation from other quarters. she was playing ranulph's game, because she instinctively felt that behind this story there was gloom in his mind and mystery in the tale itself. she noticed too that he shrank from her words. she was not very quick of intellect, so she had to feel her way fumblingly. she must have time to think, but she said tentatively: "i suppose it's no secret? i can tell any one at all what happened to your father?" she asked. "oh so--sure so!" he said rather eagerly. "tell every one about it. he doesn't mind." maitre ranulph deceived but badly. bold and convincing in all honest things, he was, as yet, unconvincing in this grave deception. all these years he had kept silence, enduring what he thought a buried shame; but that shame had risen from the dead, a living agony. his father had betrayed the island to the french: if the truth were known to-day they would hang him for a traitor on the mont es pendus. no mercy and scant shrift would be shown him. whatever came, he must drink this bitter cup to the dregs. he could never betray his own father. he must consume with inward disgust while olivier delagarde shamelessly babbled his monstrous lies to all who would listen. and he must tell these lies too, conceal, deceive, and live in hourly fear of discovery. he must sit opposite his father day by day at table, talk with him, care for him, shrinking inwardly at every knock at the door lest it should be an officer come to carry the pitiful traitor off to prison. and, more than all, he must give up for ever the thought of guida. here was the acid that ate home, the black hopelessness, the machine of fate clamping his heart. never again could he rise in the morning with a song on his lips; never again his happy meditations go lilting with the clanging blows of the adze and the singing of the saws. all these things had vanished when he looked into a tent-door on the ecrehos. now, in spite of himself, whenever he thought upon guida's face, this other fateful figure, this medusan head of a traitor, shot in between. since his return his father had not been strong enough to go abroad; but to-day he meant to walk to the vier marchi. at first ranulph had decided to go as usual to his ship-yard at st. aubin's, but at last in anxious fear he too had come to the vier marchi. there was a horrible fascination in being where his father was, in listening to his falsehoods, in watching the turns and twists of his gross hypocrisies. but yet at times he was moved by a strange pity, for olivier delagarde was, in truth, far older than his years: a thin, shuffling, pallid invalid, with a face of mingled sanctity and viciousness. if the old man lied, and had not been in prison all these years, he must have had misery far worse, for neither vice nor poverty alone could so shatter a human being. the son's pity seemed to look down from a great height upon the contemptible figure with the beautiful white hair and the abominable mouth. this compassion kept him from becoming hard, but it would also preserve him to hourly sacrifice--prometheus chained to his rock. in the short fortnight that had gone since the day upon the ecrehos, he had changed as much as do most people in ten years. since then he had seen neither philip nor guida. to carterette he seemed not the man she had known. with her woman's instinct she knew that he loved guida, but she also knew that nothing which might have happened between them could have brought this look of shame and shrinking into his face. as these thoughts flashed through her mind her heart grew warmer. suppose ranulph was in some trouble--well, now might be her great chance. she might show him that he could not live without her friendship, and then perhaps, by-and-bye, that he could not live without her love. ranulph was about to move on. she stopped him. "when you need me, maitre ranulph, you know where to find me," she said scarce above a whisper. he looked at her sharply, almost fiercely, but again the tenderness of her eyes, the directness of her gaze, convinced him. she might be, as she was, variable with other people; with himself she was invincibly straightforward. "p'raps you don't trust me?" she added, for she read his changing expression. "i'd trust you quick enough," he said. "then do it now--you're having some bad trouble," she rejoined. he leaned over her stall and said to her steadily and with a little moroseness: "see you, ma garche, if i was in trouble i'd bear it by myself. i'd ask no one to help me. i'm a man, and i can stand alone. don't go telling folks i look as if i was in trouble. i'm going to launch to-morrow the biggest ship ever sent from a jersey building yard--that doesn't look like trouble, does it? turn about is fair play, garcon cart'rette: so when you're in trouble come to me. you're not a man, and it's a man's place to help a woman, all the more when she's a fine and good little stand-by like you." he forced a smile, turned upon his heel, and threaded his way through the square, keeping a look-out for his father. this he could do easily, for he was the tallest man in the vier marchi by at least three inches. carterette, oblivious of all else, stood gazing after him. she was only recalled to herself by dormy jamais. he was diligently cooking her jersey wonders, now and then turning his eyes up at her--eyes which were like spots of greyish, yellowish light in a face of putty and flour; without eyelashes, without eyebrows, a little like a fish's, something like a monkey's. they were never still. they were set in the face like little round glow worms in a mould of clay. they burned on night and day--no man had ever seen dormy jamais asleep. carterette did not resent his officiousness. he had a kind of kennel in her father's boat-house, and he was devoted to her. more than all else, dormy jamaas was clean. his clothes were mostly rags, but they were comely, compact rags. when he washed them no one seemed to know, but no languid young gentleman lounging where the sun was warmest in the vier marchi was better laundered. as carterette turned round to him he was twirling a cake on the wooden fork, and trolling: "caderoussel he has a coat, all lined with paper brown; and only when it freezes hard he wears it in the town. what do you think of caderoussel? ah, then, but list to me: caderoussel is a bon e'fant--" "come, come, dirty-fingers," she said. "leave my work alone, and stop your chatter." the daft one held up his fingers, but to do so had to thrust a cake into his mouth. "they're as clean as a ha'pendy," he said, mumbling through the cake. then he emptied his mouth of it, and was about to place it with the others. "black beganne," she cried; "how dare you! v'la--into your pocket with it!" he did as he was bid, humming to himself again: "m'sieu' de la palisse is dead, dead of a maladie; quart' of an hour before his death he could breathe like you and mel ah bah, the poor m'sieu' de la palisse is dead!" "shut up! man doux d'la vie, you chatter like a monkey!" "that poor maitre ranulph," said dormy, "once he was lively as a basket of mice; but now--" "well, now, achocre?" she said irritably, stamping her foot. "now the cat's out of the bag--oui-gia!" "you're as cunning as a norman--you've got things in your noddee!" she cried with angry impatience. he nodded, grinning. "as thick as haws," he answered. she heard behind her a laugh of foolish good-nature, which made her angry too, for it seemed to be making fun of her. she wheeled to see m. savary dit detricand leaning with both elbows on the little counter, his chin in his hand, grinning provokingly, "oh, it's you!" she said snappishly; "i hope you're pleased." "don't be cross," he answered, his head swinging unsteadily. "i wasn't laughing at you, heaven-born jersienne. i wasn't, 'pon honour! i was laughing at a thing i saw five minutes ago." he nodded in gurgling enjoyment now. "you mustn't mind me, seraphine," he added, "i'd a hot night, and i'm warm as a thrush now. but i saw a thing five minutes ago!"--he rolled on the stall. "'sh!" he added in a loud mock whisper, "here he comes now. milles diables, but here's a tongue for you, and here's a royal gentleman speaking truth like a travelling dentist!" carterette followed his gesture and saw coming out of the route es couochons, where the brave peirson issued to his death eleven years before, maitre ranulph's father. he walked with the air of a man courting observation. he imagined himself a hero; he had told his lie so many times now that he almost believed it himself. he was soon surrounded. disliked when he lived in jersey before the invasion years ago, that seemed forgotten now; for word had gone abroad that he was a patriot raised from the dead, an honour to his country. many pressed forward to shake hands with him. "help of heaven, is that you, m'sieu'?" asked one. "you owed me five chelins, but i wiped it out, o my good!" cried another generously. "shaken," cried a tall tarter holding out his hand. he had lived in england, and now easily made english verbs into french. one after another called on him to tell his story; some tried to hurry him to la pyramide, but others placed a cider-keg near, and almost lifted him on to it. "go on, go on, tell us the story," they cried. to the devil with the frenchies!" "here--here's a dish of adam's ale," cried an old woman, handing him a bowl of water. they cheered him lustily. the pallor of his face changed to a warmth. he had the fatuousness of those who deceive with impunity. with confidence he unreeled the dark line out to the end. when he had told his story, still hungry for applause, he repeated the account of how the tatterdemalion brigade of frenchmen came down upon him out of the night, and how he should have killed rullecour himself had it not been for an officer who struck him down from behind. during the recital ranulph had drawn near. he watched the enthusiasm with which the crowd received every little detail of the egregious history. everybody believed the old man, who was safe, no matter what happened to himself, ranulph delagarde, ex-artilleryman, ship-builder-and son of a criminal. at any rate the worst was over now, the first public statement of the lifelong lie. he drew a sigh of relief and misery in one. at that instant he caught sight of the flushed face of detricand, who broke into a laugh of tipsy mirth when olivier delagarde told how the french officer had stricken him down as he was about finishing off rullecour. all at once the whole thing rushed upon ranulph. what a fool he had been! he had met this officer of rullecour's these ten years past, and never once had the frenchman, by so much as a hint, suggested that he knew the truth about his father. here and now the contemptuous mirth upon the frenchman's face told the whole story. the danger and horror of the situation descended on him. instantly he started towards detricand. at that moment his father caught sight of detricand also, saw the laugh, the sneer, and recognised him. halting short in his speech he turned pale and trembled, staring as at a ghost. he had never counted on this. his breath almost stopped as he saw ranulph approach detricand. now the end was come. his fabric of lies would be torn down; he would be tried and hanged on the mont es pendus, or even be torn to pieces by this crowd. yet he could not have moved a foot from where he was if he had been given a million pounds. the sight of ranulph's face revealed to detricand the true meaning of this farce and how easily it might become a tragedy. he read the story of the son's torture, of his sacrifice; and his decision was instantly made: he would befriend him. looking straight into his eyes, his own said he had resolved to know nothing whatever about this criminal on the cider-cask. the two men telegraphed to each other a perfect understanding, and then detricand turned on his heel, and walked away into the crowd. the sudden change in the old man's appearance had not been lost on the spectators, but they set it down to weakness or a sudden sickness. one ran for a glass of brandy, another for cider, and an old woman handed up to him a mogue of cinnamon drops. the old man tremblingly drank the brandy. when he looked again detricand had disappeared. a dark, sinister expression crossed his face, an evil thought pulled down the corners of his mouth as he stepped from the cask. his son went to him and taking his arm, said: "come, you've done enough for to-day." the old man made no reply, but submissively walked away into the coin & anes. once however he turned and looked the way detricand had gone, muttering. the peasants cheered him as he passed. presently, free of the crowd and entering the rue d'egypte, he said to ranulph: "i'm going alone; i don't need you." "where are you going?" asked ranulph. "home," answered the old man gloomily. ranulph stopped. "all right; better not come out again to-day." "you're not going to let that frenchman hurt me?" suddenly asked delagarde with morose anxiety. "you're going to stop that? they'd put me in prison." ranulph stooped over his father, his eyes alive with anger, his face blurred with disgust. "go home," said he, "and never mention this again while you live, or i'll take you to prison myself." ranulph watched his father disappear down the rue d'egypte, then he retraced his steps to the vier marchi. with a new-formed determination he quickened his walk, ruling his face to a sort of forced gaiety, lest any one should think his moodiness strange. one person after another accosted him. he listened eagerly, to see if anything were said which might show suspicion of his father. but the gossip was all in old delagarde's favour. from group to group he went, answering greetings cheerily and steeling himself to the whole disgusting business. presently he saw the chevalier du champsavoys with the sieur de mauprat. this was the first public appearance of the chevalier since the sad business at the vier prison a fortnight before. the simple folk had forgotten their insane treatment of him then, and they saluted him now with a chirping: "es-tu biaou, chevalier?" and "es-tu gentiment, m'sieu'?" to which he responded with amiable forgiveness. to his idea they were only naughty children, their minds reasoning no more clearly than they saw the streets through the tiny little squares of bottle-glass in the windows of their homes. all at once they came face to face with detricand. the chevalier stopped short with pleased yet wistful surprise. his brow knitted when he saw that his compatriot had been drinking again, and his eyes had a pained look as he said eagerly: "have you heard from the comte de tournay, monsieur? i have not seen you these days past. you said you would not disappoint me." detricand drew from his pocket a letter and handed it over, saying: "this comes from the comte." the old gentleman took the letter, nervously opened it, and read it slowly, saying each sentence over twice as though to get the full meaning. "ah," he exclaimed, "he is going back to france to fight for the king!" then he looked at detricand sadly, benevolently. "mon cher," said he, "if i could but persuade you to abjure the wine-cup and follow his example!" detricand drew himself up with a jerk. "you can persuade me, chevalier," said he. "this is my last bout. i had sworn to have it with--with a soldier i knew, and i've kept my word. but it's the last, the very last in my life, on the honour of--the detricands. and i am going with the comte de tournay to fight for the king." the little chevalier's lips trembled, and taking the young man by the collar of his coat, he stood tiptoed, and kissed him on both cheeks. "will you accept something from me?" asked m. de mauprat, joining in his friend's enthusiasm. he took from his pocket a timepiece he had worn for fifty years. "it is a little gift to my france, which i shall see no more," he added. "may no time be ill spent that it records for you, monsieur." detricand laughed in his careless way, but the face, seamed with dissipation, took on a new and better look, as with a hand-grasp of gratitude he put the timepiece in his pocket. "i'll do my best," he said simply. "i'll be with de la rochejaquelein and the army of the vendee to-morrow night." then he shook hands with both little gentlemen and moved away towards the rue des tres pigeons. presently some one touched his arm. he looked round. it was ranulph. "i stood near," said ranulph; "i chanced to hear what you said to them. you've been a friend to me today--and these eleven years past. you knew about my father, all the time." before replying detricand glanced round to see that no one was listening. "look you, monsieur, a man must keep some decencies in his life, or cut his own throat. what a ruffian i'd be to do you or your father harm! i'm silent, of course. let your mind rest about me. but there's the baker carcaud--" "the baker?" asked ranulph dumfounded. "i thought he was tied to a rock and left to drown, by rullecour's orders." "i had him set free after rullecour had gone on to the town. he got away to france." ranulph's anxiety deepened. "he might come back, and then if anything happened to him--" "he'd try and make things happen to others, eh? but there's little danger of his coming back. they know he's a traitor, and he knows he'd be hung. if he's alive he'll stay where he is. cheer up! take my word, olivier delagarde has only himself to fear." he put out his hand. "good-bye. if ever i can do anything for you, if you ever want to find me, come or send to--no, i'll write it," he suddenly added, and scribbling something on a piece of paper he handed it over. they parted with another handshake, detricand making his way into the rue d'egypte, and towards the place du vier prison. ranulph stood looking dazedly at the crowd before him, misery, revolt, and bitterness in his heart. this french adventurer, detricand, after years of riotous living, could pick up the threads of life again with a laugh and no shame, while he felt himself going down, down, down, with no hope of ever rising again. as he stood buried in his reflections the town crier entered the vier marchi, and, going to la pyramide, took his place upon the steps, and in a loud voice began reading a proclamation. it was to the effect that the great fishing company trading to gaspe needed twenty jersiais to go out and replace a number of the company's officers and men who had been drowned in a gale off the rock called perch. to these twenty, if they went at once, good pay would be given. but they must be men of intelligence and vigour, of well-known character. the critical moment in maitre ranulph's life came now. here he was penned up in a little island, chained to a criminal having the fame of a martyr. it was not to be borne. why not leave it all behind? why not let his father shift for himself, abide his own fate? why not leave him the home, what money he had laid by, and go-go-go where he could forget, go where he could breathe. surely self-preservation, that was the first law; surely no known code of human practice called upon him to share the daily crimes of any living soul--it was a daily repetition of his crime for this traitor to carry on the atrocious lie of patriotism. he would go. it was his right. taking a few steps towards the officer of the company standing by the crier, he was about to speak. some one touched him. he turned and saw carterette. she had divined his intention, and though she was in the dark as to the motive, she saw that he meant to go to gaspe. her heart seemed to contract till the pain of it hurt her; then, as a new thought flashed into her mind, it was freed again and began pounding hard against her breast. she must prevent him from leaving jersey, from leaving her. what she might feel personally would have no effect upon him; she would appeal to him from a different stand-point. "you must not go," she said. "you must not leave your father alone, maitre ranulph." for a minute he did not reply. through his dark wretchedness one thought pierced its way: this girl was his good friend. "then i'll take him with me," he said. "he would die in the awful cold," she answered. "nannin-gia, you must stay." "eh ben, i will think!" he said presently, with an air of heavy resignation, and, turning, walked away. her eyes followed him. as she went back to her booth she smiled: he had come one step her way. he would not go. chapter xiii when detricand left the vier marchi he made his way along the rue d'egypte to the house of m. de mauprat. the front door was open, and a nice savour of boiling fruit came from within. he knocked, and instantly guida appeared, her sleeves rolled back to her elbows, her fingers stained with the rich red of the blackberries on the fire. a curious shade of disappointment came into her face when she saw who it was. it was clear to detricand that she expected some one else; it was also clear that his coming gave no especial pleasure to her, though she looked at him with interest. she had thought of him more than once since that day when the famous letter from france to the chevalier was read. she had instinctively compared him, this roystering, notorious fellow, with philip d'avranche, philip the brave, the ambitious, the conquering. she was sure that philip had never over-drunk himself in his life; and now, looking into the face of detricand, she could tell that he had been drinking again. one thing was apparent, however: he was better dressed than she ever remembered seeing him, better pulled together, and bearing himself with an air of purpose. "i've fetched back your handkerchief--you tied up my head with it, you know," he said, taking it from his pocket. "i'm going away, and i wanted to thank you." "will you not come in, monsieur?" she said. he readily entered the kitchen, still holding the handkerchief in his hand, but he did not give it to her. "where will you sit?" she said, looking round. "i'm very busy. you mustn't mind my working," she added, going to the brass bashin at the fire. "this preserve will spoil if i don't watch it." he seated himself on the veille, and nodded his head. "i like this," he said. "i'm fond of kitchens. i always was. when i was fifteen i was sent away from home because i liked the stables and the kitchen too well. also i fell in love with the cook." guida flushed, frowned, her lips tightened, then presently a look of amusement broke over her face, and she burst out laughing. "why do you tell me these things?" she said. "excuse me, monsieur, but why do you always tell unpleasant things about yourself? people think ill of you, and otherwise they might think--better." "i don't want them to think better till i am better," he answered. "the only way i can prevent myself becoming a sneak is by blabbing my faults. now, i was drunk last night--very, very drunk." a look of disgust came into her face. "why do you relate this sort of thing to me, monsieur? do--do i remind you of the cook at home, or of an oyster-girl in jersey?" she was flushing, but her voice was clear and vibrant, the look of the eyes direct and fearless. how dared he hold her handkerchief like that! "i tell you them," he answered slowly, looking at the handkerchief in his hand, then raising his eyes to hers with whimsical gravity, "because i want you to ask me never to drink again." she looked at him scarce comprehending, yet feeling a deep compliment somewhere, for this man was a gentleman by birth, and his manner was respectful, and had always been respectful to her. "why do you want me to ask you that?" she said. "because i'm going to france to join the war of the vendee, and--" "with the comte de tournay?" she interrupted. he nodded his head. "and if i thought i was keeping a promise to--to you, i'd not break it. will you ask me to promise?" he persisted, watching her intently. "why, of course," she answered kindly, almost gently; the compliment was so real, he could not be all bad. "then say my name, and ask me," he said. "monsieur--" "leave out the monsieur," he interrupted. "yves savary dit detricand, will you promise me, guida landresse--" "de landresse," he interposed courteously. "--guida landresse de landresse, that you will never again drink wine to excess, and that you will never do anything that"--she paused confused. "that you would not wish me to do," he said in a low voice. "that i should not wish you to do," she repeated in a half-embarrassed way. "on my honour i promise," he said slowly. a strange feeling came over her. she had suddenly, in some indirect, allusive way, become interested in a man's life. yet she had done nothing, and in truth she cared nothing. they stood looking at each other, she slightly embarrassed, he hopeful and eager, when suddenly a step sounded without, a voice called "guida!" and as guida coloured and detricand turned towards the door, philip d'avranche entered impetuously. he stopped short on seeing detricand. they knew each other slightly, and they bowed. philip frowned. he saw that something had occurred between the two. detricand on his part realised the significance of that familiar "guida!" called from outside. he took up his cap. "it is greeting and good-bye, i am just off for france," he said. philip eyed him coldly, and not a little maliciously, for he knew detricand's reputation well, the signs of a hard life were thick on him, and he did not like to think of guida being alone with him. "france should offer a wide field for your talents just now," he answered drily; "they seem wasted here." detricand's eye flashed, but he answered coolly: "it wasn't talent that brought me here, but a boy's folly; it's not talent that's kept me from starving here, i'm afraid, but the ingenuity of the desperate." "why stay here? the world was wide, and france but a step away. you would not have needed talents there. you would no doubt have been rewarded by the court which sent you and rullecour to ravage jersey--" "the proper order is rullecour and me, monsieur." detricand seemed suddenly to have got back a manner to which he had been long a stranger. his temper became imperturbable, and this was not lost on philip; his manner had a balanced serenity, while philip himself had no such perfect control; which made him the more impatient. presently detricand added in a composed and nonchalant tone: "i've no doubt there were those at court who'd have clothed me in purple and fine linen, and given me wine and milk, but it was my whim to work in the galleys here, as it were." "then i trust you've enjoyed your botany bay," answered philip mockingly. "you've been your own jailer, you could lay the strokes on heavy or light." he moved to the veille, and sat down. guida busied herself at the fireplace, but listened intently. "i've certainly been my own enemy, whether the strokes were heavy or light," replied detricand, lifting a shoulder ironically. "and a friend to jersey at the same time, eh?" was the sneering reply. detricand was in the humour to tell the truth even to this man who hated him. he was giving himself the luxury of auricular confession. but philip did not see that when once such a man has stood in his own pillory, sat in his own stocks, voluntarily paid the piper, he will take no after insult. detricand still would not be tempted out of his composure. "no," he answered, "i've been an enemy to jersey too, both by act and example; but people here have been kind enough to forget the act, and the example i set is not unique." "you've never thought that you've outstayed your welcome, eh?" "as to that, every country is free to whoever wills, if one cares to pay the entrance fee and can endure the entertainment. one hasn't to apologise for living in a country. you probably get no better treatment than you deserve, and no worse. one thing balances another." the man's cool impeachment and defence of himself irritated philip, the more so because guida was present, and this gentlemanly vagrant had him at advantage. "you paid no entrance fee here; you stole in through a hole in the wall. you should have been hanged." "monsieur d'avranche!" said guida reproachfully, turning round from the fire. detricand's answer came biting and dry. "you are an officer of your king, as was i. you should know that hanging the invaders of jersey would have been butchery. we were soldiers of france; we had the distinction of being prisoners of war, monsieur." this shot went home. philip had been touched in that nerve called military honour. he got to his feet. "you are right," he answered with reluctant frankness. "our grudge is not individual, it is against france, and we'll pay it soon with good interest, monsieur." "the individual grudge will not be lost sight of in the general, i hope?" rejoined detricand with cool suggestion, his clear, persistent grey eye looking straight into philip's. "i shall do you that honour," said philip with mistaken disdain. detricand bowed low. "you will always find me in the suite of the prince of vaufontaine, monsieur, and ready to be so distinguished by you." turning to guida, he added: "mademoiselle will perhaps do me the honour to notice me again one day?" then, with a mocking nod to philip, he left the house. guida and philip stood looking after him in silence for a minute. suddenly guida said to herself: "my handkerchief--why did he take my handkerchief? he put it in his pocket again." philip turned on her impatiently. "what was that adventurer saying to you, guida? in the suite of the prince of vaufontaine, my faith! what did he come here for?" guida looked at him in surprise. she scarcely grasped the significance of the question. before she had time to consider, he pressed it again, and without hesitation she told him all that had happened--it was so very little, of course--between detricand and herself. she omitted nothing save that detricand had carried off the handkerchief, and she could not have told, if she had been asked, why she did not speak of it. philip raged inwardly. he saw the meaning of the whole situation from detricand's stand-point, but he was wise enough from his own stand-point to keep it to himself; and so both of them reserved something, she from no motive that she knew, he from an ulterior one. he was angry too: angry at detricand, angry at guida for her very innocence, and because she had caught and held even the slight line of association detricand had thrown. in any case, detricand was going to-morrow, and to-day-to-day should decide all between guida and himself. used to bold moves, in this affair of love he was living up to his custom; and the encounter with detricand here added the last touch to his resolution, nerved him to follow his strong impulse to set all upon one hazard. a month ago he had told guida that he loved her; to-day there should be a still more daring venture. a thing not captured by a forlorn hope seemed not worth having. the girl had seized his emotions from the first moment, and had held them. to him she was the most original creature he had ever met, the most natural, the most humorous of temper, the most sincere. she had no duplicity, no guile, no arts. he said to himself that he knew his own mind always. he believed in inspirations, and he would back his knowledge, his inspiration, by an irretrievable move. yesterday had come an important message from his commander. that had decided him. to-day guida should hear a message beyond all others in importance. "won't you come into the garden?" he said presently. "a moment--a moment," she answered him lightly, for the frown had passed from his face, and he was his old buoyant self again. "i'm to make an end to this bashin of berries first," she added. so saying, she waved him away with a little air of tyranny; and he perched himself boyishly on the big chair in the corner, and with idle impatience began playing with the flax on the spinning-wheel near by. then he took to humming a ditty the jersey housewife used to sing as she spun, while guida disposed of the sweet-smelling fruit. suddenly she stopped and stamped her foot. "no, no, that's not right, stupid sailor-man," she said, and she sang a verse at him over the last details of her work: "spin, spin, belle mergaton! the moon wheels full, and the tide flows high, and your wedding-gown you must put it on ere the night hath no moon in the sky- gigoton mergaton, spin!" she paused. he was entranced. he had never heard her sing, and the full, beautiful notes of her contralto voice thrilled him like organ music. his look devoured her, her song captured him. "please go on," he said, "i never heard it that way." she was embarrassed yet delighted by his praise, and she threw into the next verse a deep weirdness: "spin, spin, belle mergaton! your gown shall be stitched ere the old moon fade: the age of a moon shall your hands spin on, or a wife in her shroud shall be laid- gigoton mergaton, spin!" "yes, yes, that's it!" he exclaimed with gay ardour. "that's it. sing on. there are two more verses." "i'll only sing one," she answered, with a little air of wilfulness. "spin, spin, belle mergaton! the little good folk the spell they have cast; by your work well done while the moon hath shone, ye shall cleave unto joy at last- gigoton mergaton, spin!" as she sang the last verse she seemed in a dream, and her rich voice, rising with the spirit of the concluding lines, poured out the notes like a bird drunk with the air of spring. "guida," he cried, springing to his feet, "when you sing like that it seems to me i live in a world that has nothing to do with the sordid business of life, with my dull trade--with getting the weather-gauge or sailing in triple line. you're a planet all by yourself, mistress guida! are you ready to come into the garden?" "yes, yes, in a minute," she answered. "you go out to the big appletree, and i'll come in a minute." the apple-tree was in the farthest corner of the large garden. near it was the summer-house where guida and her mother used to sit and read, guida on the three-legged stool, her mother on the low, wide seat covered with ferns. this spot guida used to "flourish" with flowers. the vines, too, crept through the rough latticework, and all together made the place a bower, secluded and serene. the water of the little stream outside the hedge made music too. philip placed himself on the bench beneath the appletree. what a change was all this, he thought to himself, from the staring hot stones of malta, the squalor of constantinople, the frigid cliffs of spitzbergen, the noisome tropical forests of the indies! this was arcady. it was peace, it was content. his life was sure to be varied and perhaps stormy--here would be the true change, the spirit of all this. of course he would have two sides to his life like most men: that lived before the world, and that of the home. he would have the fight for fame. he would have to use, not duplicity, but diplomacy, to play a kind of game; but this other side to his life, the side of love and home, should be simple, direct--all genuine and strong and true. in this way he would have a wonderful career. he heard guida's footstep now, and standing up he parted the apple boughs for her entrance. she was dressed all in white, without a touch of colour save in the wild rose at her throat and the pretty red shoes with the broad buckles which the chevalier had given her. her face, too, had colour--the soft, warm tint of the peach-blossom--and her auburn hair was like an aureole. philip's eyes gleamed. he stretched out both his hands in greeting and tenderness. "guida--sweetheart!" he said. she laughed up at him mischievously, and put her hands behind her back. "ma fe, you are so very forward," she said, seating herself on the bench. "and you must not call me guida, and you've no right to call me sweetheart." "i know i've no right to call you anything, but to myself i always call you guida, and sweetheart too, and i've liked to think that you would care to know my thoughts," he answered. "yes, i wish i knew your thoughts," she responded, looking up at him intently; "i should like to know every thought in your mind. . . . do you know--you don't mind my saying just what i think?--i find myself feeling that there's something in you that i never touch; i mean, that a friend ought to touch, if it's a real friendship. you appear to be so frank, and i know you are frank and good and true, and yet i seem always to be hunting for something in your mind, and it slips away from me always--always. i suppose it's because we're two different beings, and no two beings can ever know each other in this world, not altogether. we're what the chevalier calls 'separate entities.' i seem to understand his odd, wise talk better lately. he said the other day: 'lonely we come into the world, and lonely we go out of it.' that's what i mean. it makes me shudder sometimes, that part of us which lives alone for ever. we go running on as happy as can be, like biribi there in the garden, and all at once we stop short at a hedge, just as he does there--a hedge just too tall to look over and with no foothold for climbing. that's what i want so much; i want to look over the hedge." when she spoke like this to philip, as she sometimes did, she seemed quite unconscious that he was a listener, it was rather as if he were part of her and thinking the same thoughts. to philip she seemed wonderful. he had never bothered his head in that way about abstract things when he was her age, and he could not understand it in her. what was more, he could not have thought as she did if he had tried. she had that sort of mind which accepts no stereotyped reflection or idea; she worked things out for herself. her words were her own, and not another's. she was not imitative, nor yet was she bizarre; she was individual, simple, inquiring. "that's the thing that hurts most in life," she added presently; "that trying to find and not being able to--voila, what a child i am to babble so!" she broke off with a little laugh, which had, however, a plaintive note. there was a touch of undeveloped pathos in her character, for she had been left alone too young, been given responsibility too soon. he felt he must say something, and in a sympathetic tone he replied: "yes, guida, but after a while we stop trying to follow and see and find, and we walk in the old paths and take things as they are." "have you stopped?" she said to him wistfully. "oh, no, not altogether," he replied, dropping his tones to tenderness, "for i've been trying to peep over a hedge this afternoon, and i haven't done it yet." "have you?" she rejoined, then paused, for the look in his eyes embarrassed her. . . . "why do you look at me like that?" she added tremulously. "guida," he said earnestly, leaning towards her, "a month ago i asked you if you would listen to me when i told you of my love, and you said you would. well, sometimes when we have met since, i have told you the same story, and you've kept your promise and listened. guida, i want to go on telling you the same story for a long time--even till you or i die." "do you--ah, then, do you?" she asked simply. "do you really wish that?" "it is the greatest wish of my life, and always will be," he added, taking her unresisting hands. "i like to hear you say it," she answered simply, "and it cannot be wrong, can it? is there any wrong in my listening to you? yet why do i feel that it is not quite right?--sometimes i do feel that." "one thing will make all right," he said eagerly; "one thing. i love you, guida, love you devotedly. do you--tell me if you love me? do not fear to tell me, dearest, for then will come the thing that makes all right." "i do not know," she responded, her heart beating fast, her eyes drooping before him; "but when you go from me, i am not happy till i see you again. when you are gone, i want to be alone that i may remember all you have said, and say it over to myself again. when i hear you speak i want to shut my eyes, i am so happy; and every word of mine seems clumsy when you talk to me; and i feel of how little account i am beside you. is that love, philip--philip, do you think that is love?" they were standing now. the fruit that hung above guida's head was not fairer and sweeter than she. philip drew her to him, and her eyes lifted to his. "is that love, philip?" she repeated. "tell me, for i do not know--it has all come so soon. you are wiser; do not deceive me; you understand, and i do not. philip, do not let me deceive myself." "as the judgment of life is before us, i believe you love me, guida-though i don't deserve it," he answered with tender seriousness. "and it is right that you should love me; that we should love each other, philip?" "it will be right soon," he said, "right for ever. guida mine, i want you to marry me." his arm tightened round her waist, as though he half feared she would fly from him. he was right; she made a motion backward, but he held her firmly, tenderly. "marry--marry you, philip!" she exclaimed in trembling dismay. "marry--yes, marry me, guida. that will make all right; that will bind us together for ever. have you never thought of that?" "oh, never, never!" she answered. it was true, she had never thought of that; there had not been time. too much had come all at once. "why should i? i cannot--cannot. oh, it could not be--not at least for a long, long time, not for years and years, philip." "guida," he answered gravely and persistently, "i want you to marry me-to-morrow." she was overwhelmed. she could scarcely speak. "to-morrow--to-morrow, philip? you are laughing at me. i could not--how could i marry you to-morrow?" "guida, dearest,"--he took her hands more tightly now--"you must indeed. the day after to-morrow my ship is going to portsmouth for two months. then we return again here, but i will not go now unless i go as your husband!" "oh, no, i could not--it is impossible, philip! it is madness--it is wrong. my grandfather--" "your grandfather need not know, sweetheart." "how can you say such wicked things, philip?" "my dearest, it is not necessary for him to know. i don't want any one to know until i come back from portsmouth. then i shall have a ship of my own--commander of the araminta i shall be then. i have word from the admiralty to that effect. but i dare not let them know that i am married until i get commissioned to my ship. the admiralty has set its face against lieutenants marrying." "then do not marry, philip. you ought not, you see." her pleading was like the beating of helpless wings against the bars of a golden cage. "but i must marry you, guida. a sailor's life is uncertain, and what i want i want now. when i come back from portsmouth every one shall know, but if you love me--and i know you do--you must marry me to-morrow. until i come back no one shall know about it except the clergyman, mr. dow of st. michael's--i have seen him--and shoreham, a brother officer of mine. ah, you must, guida, you must! whatever is worth doing is better worth doing in the time one's own heart says. i want it more, a thousand times more, than i ever wanted anything in my life." she looked at him in a troubled sort of way. somehow she felt wiser than he at that moment, wiser and stronger, though she scarcely defined the feeling to herself, though she knew that in the end her brain would yield to her heart in this. "would it make you so much happier, philip?" she said more kindly than joyfully, more in grave acquiescence than delighted belief. "yes, on my honour--supremely happy." "you are afraid that otherwise, by some chance, you might lose me?" she said it tenderly, yet with a little pain. "yes, yes, that is it, guida dearest," he replied. "i suppose women are different altogether from men," she answered. "i could have waited ever so long, believing that you would come again, and that i should never lose you. but men are different; i see, yes, i see that, philip." "we are more impetuous. we know, we sailors, that now-to-day-is our time; that to-morrow may be fate's, and fate is a fickle jade: she beckons you up with one hand to-day, and waves you down with the other to-morrow." "philip," she said, scarcely above a whisper, and putting her hands on his arms, as her head sank towards him, "i must be honest with you-i must be that or nothing at all. i do not feel as you do about it; i can't. i would much--much--rather everybody knew. and i feel it almost wrong that they do not." she paused a minute, her brow clouded slightly, then cleared again, and she went on bravely: "philip, if--if i should, you must promise me that you will leave me as soon as ever we are married, and that you will not try to see me until you come again from portsmouth. i am sure that is right, for the deception will not be so great. i should be better able then to tell the poor grandpethe. will you promise me, philip-dear? it--it is so hard for me. ah, can't you understand?" this hopeless everlasting cry of a woman's soul! he clasped her close. "yes, guida, my beloved, i understand, and i promise you--i do promise you." her head dropped on his breast, her arms ran round his neck. he raised her face; her eyes were closed; they were dropping tears. he tenderly kissed the tears away. chapter xiv "oh, give to me my gui-l'annee, i pray you, monseigneur; the king's princess doth ride to-day, and i ride forth with her. oh! i will ride the maid beside till we come to the sea, till my good ship receive my bride, and she sail far with me. oh, donnez-moi ma gui-l'annee, monseigneur, je vous prie!" the singer was perched on a huge broad stone, which, lying athwart other tall perpendicular stones, made a kind of hut, approached by a pathway of upright narrow pillars, irregular and crude. vast must have been the labour of man's hands to lift the massive table of rock upon the supporting shafts--relics of an age when they were the only architecture, the only national monuments; when savage ancestors in lion skins, with stone weapons, led by white-robed druid priests, came solemnly here and left the mistletoe wreath upon these houses of death for their adored warriors. even the words sung by shoreham on the rock carried on the ancient story, the sacred legend that he who wore in his breast this mistletoe got from the druids' altar, bearing his bride forth by sea or land, should suffer no mischance; and for the bride herself, the morgen-gifn should fail not, but should attest richly the perfect bliss of the nuptial hours. the light was almost gone from the day, though the last crimson petals had scarce dropped from the rose of sunset. upon the sea beneath there was not a ripple; it was a lake of molten silver, shading into a leaden silence far away. the tide was high, and the ragged rocks of the banc des violets in the south and the corbiore in the west were all but hidden. below the mound where the tuneful youth loitered was a path, leading down through the fields and into the highway. in this path walked lingeringly a man and a maid. despite the peaceful, almost dormant life about them, the great event of their lives had just occurred, that which is at once a vast adventure and a simple testament of nature: they had been joined in marriage privately in the parish church of st. michael's near by. as shoreham's voice came down the cotil, the two looked up, then passed on out of view. but still the voice followed them, and the man looked down at the maid, repeating the refrain of the song: "oh, give to me my gui-l'annee, monseigneur, je vous prie!" the maid looked up at the man tenderly, almost devoutly. "i have no druid's mistletoe from the chapel of st. george, but i will give you--stoop down, philip," she added softly, "i will give you the first kiss i have ever given to any man." he stooped. she kissed him on the forehead, then upon the lips. "guida, my wife," philip said, and drew her to his breast. "my philip," she answered softly. "won't you say, 'philip, my husband'?" she shyly did as he asked in a voice no louder than a bee's. she was only seventeen. presently she looked up at him with a look a little abashed, a little anxious, yet tender withal. "philip," she said, "i wonder what we will think of this day a year from now--no, don't frown, philip," she added. "you look at things so differently from me. to-day is everything to you; to-morrow is very much to me. it isn't that i am afraid, it is that thoughts of possibilities will come whether or no. if i couldn't tell you everything i feel i should be most unhappy. you see, i want to be able to do that, to tell you everything." "of course, of course," he said, not quite comprehending her, for his thoughts were always more material. he was revelling in the beauty of the girl before him, in her perfect outward self, in her unique personality. the more subtle, the deeper part of her, the searching soul never to be content with superficial reasons and the obvious cause, these he did not know--was he ever to know? it was the law of her nature that she was never to deceive herself, to pretend anything, nor to forgive pretence. to see things, to look beyond the hedge, that was to be a passion with her; already it was nearly that. "of course," philip continued, "you must tell me everything, and i'll understand. and as for what we'll think of this in another year, why, doesn't it hold to reason that we'll think it the best day of our lives-as it is, guida?" he smiled at her, and touched her shining hair. "evil can't come out of good, can it? and this is good, as good as anything in the world can be. . . . there, look into my eyes that way--just that way." "are you happy--very, very happy, philip?" she asked, lingering on the words. "perfectly happy, guida," he answered; and in truth he seemed so, his eyes were so bright, his face so eloquent, his bearing so buoyant. "and you think we have done quite right, philip?" she urged. "of course, of course we have. we are honourably disposing of our own fates. we love each other, we are married as surely as others are married. where is the wrong? we have told no one, simply because for a couple of months it is best not to do so. the parson wouldn't have married us if there'd been anything wrong." "oh, it isn't what the clergyman might think that i mean; it's what we ourselves think down, down deep in our hearts. if you, philip--if you say it is all right, i will believe that it is right, for you would never want your wife to have one single wrong thing like a dark spot on her life with you--would you? if it is all right to you, it must be all right for me, don't you see?" he did see that, and it made him grave for an instant, it made him not quite so sure. "if your mother were alive," he answered, "of course she should have known; but it isn't necessary for your grandfather to know. he talks; he couldn't keep it to himself even for a month. but we have been regularly married, we have a witness--shoreham over there "he pointed towards the druid's cromlech where the young man was perched--" and it only concerns us now--only you and me." "yet if anything happened to you during the next two months, philip, and you did not come back!" "my dearest, dearest guida," he answered, taking her hands in his, and laughing boyishly, "in that case you will announce the marriage. shoreham and the clergyman are witnesses; besides, there's the certificate which mr. dow will give you to-morrow; and, above all, there's the formal record on the parish register. there, sweetest interrogation mark in the world, there is the law and the gospel! come, come, let us be gay, let this be the happiest hour we've yet had in all our lives." "how can i be altogether gay, philip, when we part now, and i shall not see you for two whole long months?" "mayn't i come to you for just a minute to-morrow morning, before i go?" "no, no, no, you must not, indeed you must not. remember your promise, remember that you are not to see me again until you come back from portsmouth. even this is not quite what we agreed, for you are still with me, and we've been married nearly half an hour!" "perhaps we were married a thousand years ago--i don't know," he answered, drawing her to him. "it's all a magnificent dream so far." "you must go, you must keep your word. don't break the first promise you ever made me, philip." she did not say it very reproachfully, for his look was ardent and worshipful, and she could not be even a little austere in her new joy. "i am going," he answered. "we will go back to the town, i by the road, you by the shore, so no one will see us, and--" "philip," said guida suddenly, "is it quite the same being married without banns?" his laugh had again a youthful ring of delight. "of course, just the same, my doubting fay," said he. "don't be frightened about anything. now promise me that--will you promise me?" she looked at him a moment steadily, her eyes lingering on his face with great tenderness, and then she said: "yes, philip, i will not trouble or question any longer. i will only believe that everything is all right. say good-bye to me, philip. i am happy now, but if--if you stay any longer--ah, please, please go, philip!" a moment afterwards philip and shoreham were entering the high road, waving their handkerchiefs to her as they went. she had gone back to the druid's cromlech where philip's friend had sat, and with smiling lips and swimming eyes she watched the young men until they were lost to view. her eyes wandered over the sea. how immense it was, how mysterious, how it begot in one feelings both of love and of awe! at this moment she was not in sympathy with its wonderful calm. there had been times when she seemed of it, part of it, absorbed by it, till it flowed over her soul and wrapped her in a deep content. now all was different. mystery and the million happenings of life lay hidden in that far silver haze. on the brink of such a sea her mind seemed to be hovering now. nothing was defined, nothing was clear. she was too agitated to think; life, being, was one wide, vague sensation, partly delight, partly trepidation. everything had a bright tremulousness. this mystery was no dark cloud, it was a shaking, glittering mist, and yet there rose from it an air which made her pulse beat hard, her breath come with joyous lightness. she was growing to a new consciousness; a new glass, through which to see life, was quickly being adjusted to her inner sight. many a time, with her mother, she had sat upon the shore at st. aubin's bay, and looked out where white sails fluttered like the wings of restless doves. nearer, maybe just beneath her, there had risen the keen singing of the saw, and she could see the white flash of the adze as it shaped the beams; the skeleton of a noble ship being covered with its flesh of wood, and veined with iron; the tall masts quivering to their places as the workmen hauled at the pulleys, singing snatches of patois rhymes. she had seen more than one ship launched, and a strange shiver of pleasure and of pain had gone through her; for as the water caught the graceful figure of the vessel, and the wind bellied out the sails, it seemed to her as if some ship of her own hopes were going out between the reefs to the open sea. what would her ship bring back again to her? or would anything ever come back? the books of adventure, poetry, history, and mythology she had read with her mother had quickened her mind, sharpened her intuition, had made her temperament still more sensitive--and her heart less peaceful. in her was almost every note of human feeling: home and duty, song and gaiety, daring and neighbourly kindness, love of sky and sea and air and orchards, of the good-smelling earth and wholesome animal life, and all the incidents, tragic, comic, or commonplace, of human existence. how wonderful love was, she thought! how wonderful that so many millions who had loved had come and gone, and yet of all they felt they had spoken no word that laid bare the exact feeling to her or to any other. the barbarians who raised these very stones she sat on, they had loved and hated, and everything they had dared or suffered was recorded--but where? and who could know exactly what they felt? she realised the almost keenest pain of life, that universal agony, the trying to speak, to reveal; and the proof, the hourly proof even the wisest and most gifted have, that what they feel they can never quite express, by sound, or by colour, or by the graven stone, or by the spoken word. . . . but life was good, ah yes! and all that might be revealed to her she would pray for; and philip--her philip--would help her to the revelation. her philip! her heart gave a great throb, for the knowledge that she was a wife came home to her with a pleasant shock. her name was no longer guida landresse de landresse, but guida d'avranche. she had gone from one tribe to another, she had been adopted, changed. a new life was begun. she rose, slowly made her way down to the sea, and proceeded along the sands and shore-paths to the town. presently a large vessel, with new sails, beautiful white hull, and gracious form, came slowly round a point. she shaded her eyes to look at it. "why, it's the boat maitre ranulph was to launch to-day," she said. then she stopped suddenly. "poor ranulph--poor ro!" she added gently. she knew that he cared for her--loved her. where had he been these weeks past? she had not seen him once since that great day when they had visited the ecrehos. chapter xv the house of elie mattingley the smuggler stood in the rue d'egypte, not far east of the vier prison. it had belonged to a jurat of repute, who parted with it to mattingley not long before he died. there was no doubt as to the validity of the transfer, for the deed was duly registered au greffe, and it said: "in consideration of one livre turnois," etc. possibly it was a libel against the departed jurat that he and mattingley had had dealings unrecognised by customs law, crystallising at last into this legacy to the famous pirate-smuggler. unlike any other in the street, this house had a high stone wall in front, enclosing a small square paved with flat stones. in one corner was an ivy-covered well, with an antique iron gate, and the bucket, hanging on a hook inside the fern-grown hood, was an old wine-keg-appropriate emblem for a smuggler's house. in one corner, girdled by about five square feet of green earth, grew a pear tree, bearing large juicy pears, reserved for the use of a distinguished lodger, the chevalier du champsavoys de beaumanoir. in the summer the chevalier always had his breakfast under this tree. occasionally one other person breakfasted with him, even savary dit detricand, whom however he met less frequently than many people of the town, though they lived in the same house. detricand was but a fitful lodger, absent at times for a month or so, and running up bills for food and wine, of which payment was never summarily demanded by mattingley, for some day or other he always paid. when he did, he never questioned the bill, and, what was most important, whether he was sober or "warm as a thrush," he always treated carterette with respect, though she was not unsparing with her tongue under slight temptation. despite their differences and the girl's tempers, when the day came for detricand to leave for france, carterette was unhappy. several things had come at once: his going,--on whom should she lavish her good advice and biting candour now?--yesterday's business in the vier marchi with olivier delagarde, and the bitter change in ranulph. sorrowful reflections and as sorrowful curiosity devoured her. all day she tortured herself. the late afternoon came, and she could bear it no longer--she would visit guida. she was about to start, when the door in the garden wall opened and olivier delagarde entered. as he doffed his hat to her she thought she had never seen anything more beautiful than the smooth forehead, white hair, and long beard of the returned patriot. that was the first impression; but a closer scrutiny detected the furtive, watery eye, the unwholesome, drooping mouth, the vicious teeth, blackened and irregular. there was, too, something sinister in the yellow stockings, luridly contrasting with the black knickerbockers and rusty blue coat. at first carterette was inclined to run towards the prophet-like figure --it was ranulph's father; next she drew back with dislike--his smile was leering malice under the guise of amiable mirth. but he was old, and he looked feeble, so her mind instantly changed again, and she offered him a seat on a bench beside the arched doorway with the superscription: "nor poverty nor riches, but daily bread under mine own fig tree." after the custom of the country, carterette at once offered him refreshment, and brought him brandy--good old brandy was always to be got at the house of elie mattingley! as he drank she noticed a peculiar, uncanny twitching of the fingers and eyelids. the old man's eyes were continually shifting from place to place. he asked carterette many questions. he had known the house years before--did the deep stream still run beneath it? was the round hole still in the floor of the back room, from which water used to be drawn in old days? carterette replied that it was m. detricand's bedroom now, and you could plainly hear the stream running beneath the house. did not the noise of the water worry poor m. detricand then? and so it still went straight on to the sea-and, of course, much swifter after such a heavy rain as they had had the day before. carterette took him into every room in the house save her own and the chevalier's. in the kitchen and in detricand's bedroom olivier delagarde's eyes were very busy. he saw that the kitchen opened on the garden, which had a gate in the rear wall. he also saw that the lozengepaned windows swung like doors, and were not securely fastened; and he tried the trap-door in detricand's bedroom to see the water flowing beneath, just as it did when he was young--yes, there it was running swiftly away to the sea! then he babbled all the way to the door that led into the street; for now he would stay no longer. when he had gone, carterette sat wondering why it was that ranulph's father should inspire her with such dislike. she knew that at this moment no man in jersey was so popular as olivier delagarde. the longer she thought the more puzzled she became. no sooner had she got one theory than another forced her to move on. in the language of her people, she did not know on which foot to dance. as she sat and thought, detricand entered, loaded with parcels and bundles. these were mostly gifts for her father and herself; and for du champsavoys there was a fine delft shaving-dish, shaped like a quartermoon to fit the neck. they were distributed, and by the time supper was over, it was quite dark. then detricand said his farewells, for it was ten o'clock, and he must be away at three, when his boat was to steal across to brittany, and land him near to the outposts of the royalist army under de la rochejaquelein. there were letters to write and packing yet to do. he set to work gaily. at last everything was done, and he was stooping over a bag to fasten it. the candle was in the window. suddenly a hand--a long, skinny hand-reached softly out from behind a large press, and swallowed and crushed out the flame. detricand raised his head quickly, astonished. there was no wind blowing--the candle had not even flickered when burning. but then, again, he had not heard a sound; perhaps that was because his foot was scraping the floor at the moment the light went out. he looked out of the window, but there was only starlight, and he could not see distinctly. turning round he went to the door of the outer hall-way, opened it, and stepped into the garden. as he did so, a figure slipped from behind the press in the bedroom, swiftly raised the trap-door in the flooring, then, shadowed by the door leading into the hall-way, waited for him. presently his footstep was heard. he entered the hall, stood in the doorway of the bedroom for a moment, while he searched in his pockets for a light, then stepped inside. suddenly his attention was arrested. there was the sound of flowing water beneath his feet. this could always be heard in his room, but now how loud it was! realising that the trap-door must be open, he listened for a second and was instantly conscious of some one in the room. he made a step towards the door, but it suddenly closed softly. he moved swiftly to the window, for the presence was near the door. what did it mean? who was it? was there one, or more? was murder intended? the silence, the weirdness, stopped his tongue--besides, what was the good of crying out? whatever was to happen would happen at once. he struck a light, and held it up. as he did so some one or something rushed at him. what a fool he had been--the light had revealed his position! but at the same moment came the instinct to throw himself to one side; which he did as the rush came. in that one flash he had seen --a man's white beard. next instant there was a sharp sting in his right shoulder. the knife had missed his breast--the sudden swerving had saved him. even as it struck, he threw himself on his assailant. then came a struggle. the long fingers of the man with the white beard clove to the knife like a dead soldier's to the handle of a sword. twice detricand's hand was gashed slightly, and then he pinioned the wrist of his enemy, and tripped him up. the miscreant fell half across the opening in the floor. one foot, hanging down, almost touched the running water. detricand had his foe at his mercy. there was the first inclination to drop him into the stream, but that was put away as quickly as it came. he gave the wretch a sudden twist, pulling him clear of the hole, and wrenched the knife from his fingers at the same moment. "now, monsieur," said he, feeling for a light, "now we'll have a look at you." the figure lay quiet beneath him. the nervous strength was gone, the body was limp, the breathing was laboured. the light flared. detricand held it down, and there was revealed the haggard, malicious face of olivier delagarde. "so, monsieur the traitor," said detricand--" so you'd be a murderer too --eh?" the old man mumbled an oath. "hand of the devil," continued detricand, "was there ever a greater beast than you! i held my tongue about you these eleven years past, i held it yesterday and saved your paltry life, and you'd repay me by stabbing me in the dark--in a fine old-fashioned way too, with your trap-doors, and blown-out candle, and italian tricks--" he held the candle down near the white beard as though he would singe it. "come, sit up against the wall there and let me look at you." cringing, the old man drew himself over to the wall. detricand, seating himself in a chair, held the candle up before him. after a moment he said: "what i want to know is, how could a low-flying cormorant like you beget a gull of the cliffs like maitre ranulph?" the old man did not answer, but sat blinking with malignant yet fearful eyes at detricand, who continued: "what did you come back for? why didn't you stay dead? ranulph had a name as clean as a piece of paper from the mill, and he can't write it now without turning sick, because it's the same name as yours. you're the choice blackamoor of creation, aren't you? now what have you got to say?" "let me go," whined the old man with the white beard. "let me go, monsieur. don't send me to prison." detricand stirred him with his foot, as one might a pile of dirt. "listen," said he. "in the vier marchi they're cutting off the ear of a man and nailing it to a post, because he ill-used a cow. what do you suppose they'd do to you, if i took you down there and told them it was through you rullecour landed, and that you'd have seen them all murdered --eh, maitre cormorant?" the old man crawled towards detricand on his knees. "let me go, let me go," he whined. "i was mad; i didn't know what i was doing; i've not been right in the head since i was in the guiana prison." at that moment it struck detricand that the old man must have had some awful experience in prison, for now his eyes had the most painful terror, the most abject fear. he had never seen so craven a sight. "what were you in prison for in guiana, and what did they do to you there?" asked detricand sternly. again the old man shivered horribly, and tears streamed down his cheeks, as he whined piteously: "oh no, no, no--for the mercy of christ, no!" he threw up his hands as if to ward off a blow. detricand saw that this was not acting, that it was a supreme terror, an awful momentary aberration; for the traitor's eyes were wildly staring, the mouth was drawn in agony, the hands were now rigidly clutching an imaginary something, the body stiffened where it crouched. detricand understood now. the old man had been tied to a triangle and whipped--how horribly who might know? his mood towards the miserable creature changed: he spoke to him in a firm, quiet tone. "there, there, you're not going to be hurt. be quiet now, and you shall not be touched." then he stooped over, and quickly undoing the old man's waistcoat, he pulled down the coat and shirt and looked at his back. as far as he could see it was scarred as though by a red-hot iron, and the healed welts were like whipcords on the shrivelled skin. the old man whimpered yet, but he was growing quieter. detricand lifted him up, and buttoning the shirt and straightening the coat again, he said: "now, you're to go home and sleep the sleep of the unjust, and you're to keep the sixth commandment, and you're to tell no more lies. you've made a shameful mess of your son's life, and you're to die now as soon as you can without attracting notice. you're to pray for an accident to take you out of the world: a wind to blow you over a cliff, a roof to fall on you, a boat to go down with you, a hole in the ground to swallow you up, a fever or a plague to end you in a day." he opened the door to let him go; but suddenly catching his arms held him in a close grip. "hark!" he said in a mysterious whisper. there was only the weird sound of the running water through the open trap-door of the floor. he knew how superstitious was every jerseyman, from highest to lowest, and he would work upon that weakness now. "you hear that water running to the sea?" he said solemnly. "you tried to kill and drown me to-night. you've heard how when one man has drowned another an invisible stream follows the murderer wherever he goes, and he hears it, hour after hour, month after month, year after year, until suddenly one day it comes on him in a huge flood, and he is found, whether in the road, or in his bed, or at the table, or in the field, drowned, and dead?" the old man shivered violently. "you know manon moignard the witch? well, if you don't do what i say-and i shall find out, mind you--she shall bewitch the flood on you. be still . . . listen! that's the sound you'll hear every day of your life, if you break the promise you've got to make to me now." he spoke the promise with ghostly deliberation, and the old man, all the desperado gone out of him, repeated it in a husky voice. whereupon detricand led him into the garden, saw him safe out on the road and watched him disappear. then rubbing his fingers, as though to rid them of pollution, with an exclamation of disgust he went back to the house. by another evening--that is, at the hour when guida arrived home after her secret marriage with philip d'avranche--he saw the lights of the army of de la rochejaquelein in the valley of the vendee. etext editor's bookmarks: adaptability was his greatest weapon in life he felt things, he did not study them if women hadn't memory, she answered, they wouldn't have much lilt of existence lulling to sleep wisdom and tried experience lonely we come into the world, and lonely we go out of it never to be content with superficial reasons and the obvious the forest of vazon _a guernsey legend of the eighth century_. london: harrison & sons, 59, pall mall booksellers to the queen and h.r.h the prince of wales 1889. preface. nothing authentic is known of the history of guernsey previously to its annexation to the duchy of normandy in the tenth century. the only sources of information as to events which may have occurred before that date are references in monkish chronicles of the usual semi-mythical type, and indications conveyed by cromlechs and menhirs, fragments of celtic instruments and pottery, and a few roman relics. it is unfortunate that we are thus precluded from acquiring any knowledge of the development of a people as to whom the soundest among conflicting conjectures seems to be that, coming originally from brittany, they preserved the purity of the celtic race through periods when in other offshoots of the same stock its characteristics were being obliterated by the processes of crossing and absorption. if early local records had existed they would hardly have failed to have given minute details of the convulsion of nature which resulted in the destruction by the sea of the forest lands on the northern and western sides of the island, and in the separation of tracts of considerable magnitude from the mainland. geologists are agreed in assigning to this event the date of march, 709, when great inundations occurred in the bay of avranches on the french coast; they are not equally unanimous as to the cause, but science now rejects the theory of a raising of the sea-level and that of a general subsidence of the island. the most reasonable explanation appears to be that the overpowering force of a tidal wave suddenly swept away barriers whose resistance had been for ages surely though imperceptibly diminishing, and that the districts thus left unprotected proved to be below the sea-level--owing, as regards the forests, to gradual subsidence easily explicable in the case of undrained, swampy soil; and, as regards the rocks, to the fact that the newly exposed surface consisted of accumulations of already disintegrated deposits. it is unquestionable that before the inroad of the sea the inlet in the south-west of the island known as rocquaine bay was enclosed by two arms, the northern of which terminated in the point of lihou; on which still stand the ruins of an old priory, while the southern ended in the hanois rocks, on which a lighthouse has been erected. lihou is at present an island, accessible only at low water by a narrow causeway; the hanois is entirely cut off from the shore, but it is a noteworthy fact that the signs of old cart-ruts are visible at spring tides, and that an iron hook was recently discovered attached to a submerged rock which had apparently served as a gatepost; besides these proofs of the existence of roads now lying under the waves, it is said that an old order for the repair of hanois roads is still extant. that vazon and the braye du valle were the sites of forests is indisputable, though the former is now a sandy bay into which the atlantic flows without hindrance, and the latter, reclaimed within the present century by an enterprising governor, formed for centuries a channel of the sea by which the clos du valle, on which the vale church stands, was separated from the mainland. a stratum of peat extends over the whole arm of the braye, while as regards vazon there is the remarkable evidence of an occurrence which took place in december, 1847. a strong westerly gale, blowing into the bay concurrently with a low spring tide, broke up the bed of peat and wood underlying the sand and gravel, and lifted it up like an ice-floe; it was then carried landwards by the force of the waves. the inhabitants flocked to the spot, and the phenomenon was carefully inspected by scientific observers. trunks of full-sized trees were seen, accompanied by meadow plants and roots of rushes and weeds, surrounded by those of grasses and mosses; the perfect state of the trees showed that they had been long buried under the sand. some of the trees and boughs were at first mistaken for wreckage, but the fishermen soon discovered their error and loaded their carts with the treasure locally known as "gorban." subsequent researches have shown that acorns and hazel-nuts, teeth of horses and hogs, also pottery and instruments of the same character as those found in the cromlechs, exist among the vazon peat deposits. there is therefore abundant evidence that the legends relating to the former inhabitants of the forest are based on traditions resting on an historical foundation. contents. chapter i.--tradition chapter ii.--superstition chapter iii.--devotion chapter iv.--revelation chapter v.--affliction chapter vi.--consolation chapter vii.--annihilation chapter i. tradition. "what can he tell that treads thy shore? no legend of thine olden time, no theme on which the mind might soar high as thine own in days of yore." _the giaour_.--byron in the beginning of the eighth century guernsey was a favoured spot. around, over the continent and the british isles, had swept successive conquests with their grim train of sufferings for the conquered; but these storm-clouds had not burst over the island. the shocks which preceded the fall of the roman empire had not been felt, nor had the throes which inaugurated the birth of frankish rule in gaul and saxon supremacy in britain, disturbed the prevailing tranquillity. occasional descents of pirates, northmen from scandinavian homes or southmen from the iberian peninsula, had hitherto had a beneficial effect by keeping alive the martial spirit and the vigilance necessary for self-defence. in the third century three roman ships had been driven on shore and lost; the legionaries who escaped had established themselves in the island, having indeed for the moment no alternative. when their commander succeeded in communicating with gaul he suggested a permanent occupation, being secretly influenced by tales of mineral wealth to which he had lent an ear. disillusioned and recalled, he was followed by a sybarite, whose palate was tickled by banquets of fish of which he wrote in raptures to his friends at capri and brindisi. this excellent man, dying of apoplexy in his bath, was replaced by a rough soldier, who lost no time in procuring the evacuation of a post where he saw with a glance that troops were uselessly locked up. from this time nothing had been heard of the romans; their occupation had lasted forty years, and in another forty the only physical traces of it remaining were a camp at jerbourg, the nearly obliterated tessellated pavement and fragments of wall belonging to the sybarite's villa, which occupied the site in the king's mills valley where the moulin de haut now stands, the pond in the grand mare in which the voluptuary had reared the carp over which, dressed with sauces the secret of which died with him, he dwelt lovingly when stretched on his triclinium, and the basins at port grat in which he stored his treasured mullet and succulent oysters. the islanders were of one mind in speeding the parting guests, but the generation which saw them go were better men than their fathers who had trembled at the landing of the iron-thewed demi-gods. compelled to work as slaves, they had learnt much from their masters; a knowledge of agriculture and of the cultivation of the grape, the substitution of good weapons and implements of husbandry for those of their celtic ancestors, improved dwellings, and some insight into military discipline,--these were substantial benefits which raised them in some respects above their continental and british neighbours, among whom patriotism had, on the disappearance of the civilization of the romans, revived the more congenial barbarism. arrivals among them of christian monks, scanty at first, more frequent since the landing of s. augustine in britain, had also had a certain effect. the progress of conversion was, however, slow; the people were bigoted, and the good fathers were compelled, as in brittany, to content themselves with a few genuine converts, wisely endeavouring rather to leaven the mass by grafting christian truths on the old superstitions than to court certain defeat, possible expulsion or massacre, by striving to overthrow at once all the symbols of heathenism. the island was larger in extent than it is at present, as, in addition to the vale district, the islet of lihou, vazon bay, and the rock group known as the hanois formed part of it. it is with the events that altered this configuration that the following legend deals. chapter ii. superstition. "awestruck, the much-admiring crowd before the virgin vision bowed, gaz'd with an ever-new delight, and caught fresh virtues at the sight." edward mooré's _fables_. on the 24th of june, in the year 708, merry crowds were thronging to vazon forest. it was a lovely spot. the other portions of the island were bare and somewhat rugged; here the humidity of the soil favoured the growth of fine, vigorous timber. on the low ground flourished oak and sycamore, torn and bent near the shore where the trees met the force of the atlantic gales, growing freely and with rich verdure where better protected. on the higher slopes were massed beech, birch, and the sweet chestnut which was even then domesticated in the island. glades, bursting with a wealth of flowers nurtured by the mildness of the climate, penetrated the wood in every direction; streams bubbling up from springs, and forming little cascades where their course was checked by granite boulders, lent an additional charm. towards the centre of the forest these streams united to form a lake, or rather a natural moat, surrounding an island in the midst of which stood a gigantic oak. this was the only tree on the island; round it, at even distances, were placed twelve stones, beyond which a meadow glittering with varied hues extended to the surrounding water. it was to this island that the holiday-makers were wending their way: young men and maidens, and such elders as had vigour enough to traverse the rough tracks leading from the interior. they were a small race, lithe and active, with strong black hair and dark eyes now twinkling with merriment they poured over the wooden bridges into the precincts of the towering oak, under which the elders seated themselves with the musicians, the younger people streaming off to the clear ground between the stones and the water. when all were assembled the music struck up at a signal from an elder. the instruments were akin to the goat-skin pipes of lower brittany; the music wild, weird, appealing to the passion if not melodious to the ear. at any rate the effect was inspiriting. first, the men danced, the maidens seating themselves round the dancers and chanting the following words, to the rhythm of which they swayed their bodies gracefully:- "mille sarrazins, mille sarmates, un jour nous avons tués. mille, mille, mille, mille, mille perses, nous cherchons à present." the dance, footed to this truculent chant, had no warlike features; beginning with a march, or rather a tripping walk, it ended with feats in which each dancer defied his neighbour to out-spring him; nor did the vocalists appear to expect representations of strife and doughty deeds. the words, roman by origin, as is clear from the allusion to the persians, had been adapted to a native air by the conquerors, and had been left by them as a legacy to the islanders. next, the maidens trod a measure, the men standing round and applauding; the dance was quiet and soft, consisting principally of graceful movements of the body as if the dancers were getting themselves into training for greater efforts; in this case the dancers themselves chanted words suitable to the music. this ended, there was a pause before the principal business of the day began, the dance in which both sexes joined, to be followed by the bestowal of a wreath on the loveliest of the maidens. during the pause it was evident that an unusual incident had occurred. the best-looking of the girls were pouting, the attention of the youths was distracted. during the latter part of the dance the applause had been intermittent; towards the close it had almost ceased. the elders, looking about under their shaggy eyebrows, had not been long in discovering the cause, and when they had found it allowed their attention to wander also. the disturbing element was, indeed, not far to seek. close to one of the bridges was seated a maiden, unknown to all of them, but lovely enough to hold the glance of old and young. unlike the natives she was tall and fair; masses of golden hair encircled her oval face and clustered over her blue eyes. who was she? whence came she? none could answer. by degrees some of the boldest of the youths approached, but their bluff manners seemed to displease her; though unaccustomed to rebuffs they retired. one, however, among them fared differently. jean letocq, a member of the family to which the hero belonged who near this very spot discovered the sleeping troops of the grand sarrazin, was admired and beloved both by youths and maidens. first in every sport, having shown courage and resource in times of peril both by sea and land, tender of glance and gentle of tongue, he held a pre-eminence which none disputed, and which was above the reach of envy. the fair stranger, from his first glance at her, had fascinated, enthralled him: his eyes fastened greedily on her every movement; he noted well her reception of those who had addressed her, and when he approached he came, bare-headed, with a low obeisance and a deferential air. he seated himself by her in silence, after murmuring a few words of welcome to the feast, to which she made no answer. presently he spoke again, softly and courteously; she replied without constraint, speaking his own language fluently, though with a foreign accent. the ice once broken their talk rippled on, as is the wont of light words, brightly uttered. jean drank in each gentle phrase, watched every graceful gesture; his heart bounded when she carelessly smiled. but he lost not his daring: when the musicians again struck up he boldly asked her to join in the dance. she was not offended, her look showed no displeasure, but she refused; he renewed his request; suddenly a change came over her face, she looked rapidly round as though searching for some one who was not present, a flash came into her eyes, she sprang to her feet. "why should i not dance!" she said; "they are merry, why should i alone be sad!" she let him lead her into the ring. if she had been enchanting when seated, what was her power when she moved! she was a model of grace and loveliness; the contrast of her colouring to that of her neighbours inspired the superstitious with some terror, but made the braver spirits gaze more curiously, indifferent to the half-concealed anger and affected disdain of their partners. every moment she gained more hearts, though she let her eyes rest only on those of jean. after the dance was over she seated herself in her former position; the women then, according to custom, retired outside the stone circle, while the men clustered round the oak to award the prize. the ceremony had up to this day been looked on as a pure formality: for the last two summers the wreath had been by common consent placed on the brows of suzanne falla, and none who woke that morning had doubted that it would rest there again before night. but now the men's heads were turned; there was commotion both outside and inside the circle; then a hush, as the old men rose in their places and the young men formed a lane to the tree. jean stepped out, and taking the stranger by the hand, led her to where a white-haired veteran stood with the wreath in his hand. the next moment it was placed on her brows, and then all voices burst into a song of triumph, which rang to the remotest glades of the forest. suzanne did not join in the song; her little heart was breaking; all the passion of her hot nature was roused; she felt herself unfairly, unjustly, treated; insulted on the very day that was to have crowned her pride. she could not control herself, nor could she accept her defeat: she stamped her foot on the ground, and poured out a torrent of objurgation, accusing jean of treachery, demanding to know whence he had produced her rival, appealing to the elders to revise the judgment. then, suddenly ceasing, as she saw by the looks of those around her that while in some her fate created pity, in others it gave rise to amusement, in many to the pleasure which poor human nature felt then as now in a friend's misfortune, her mood altered: she turned and, rapidly leaving the crowd, crossed one of the bridges. hastening her steps, but not watching them, she tripped over the straggling root of a yew, and fell, her temple striking a sharp boulder, one of many cropping up in the forest. poor girl! in one moment passion and pride had flown; she lay senseless, blood streaming from the wound. a quick revulsion of feeling swept through the impressionable people. her departure had been watched, the fall observed, and the serious nature of the accident was soon known; all hurried to the spot where she lay, full of sympathy and distress. jean, perhaps not altogether unremorseful, was among the first to proffer aid; the stranger, left alone, took off the wreath and placed it on one of the stones of the circle, by which she stood contemplating the scene. the blow, struck deep into the temple, was beyond any ordinary means of cure; life indeed seemed to be ebbing away. "send for marie!" the cry sprang from many mouths: "send for marie the wise woman! she alone can save her!" three or four youths ran hastily off. "wish ye for marie torode's body or her spirit?" said a harsh female voice; "her body ye can have! but what avail closed eyes and rigid limbs? her spirit, tossed by the whirling death-blast, is beyond your reach!" the speaker, on whom all eyes turned, was an aged woman of unusual height; her snow-white hair was confined by a metal circlet, her eyes were keen and searching, her gestures imperious; her dress was simple and would have been rude but for the quaintly ornamented silver girdle that bound her waist, and the massive bracelets on her arms. like the girl she was seen for the first time; her almost supernatural appearance inspired wonder and awe. she bent over the prostrate form: "marie said with her last breath," she muttered to herself, "that ere the oaks were green again the sweetest maidens in the island would be in her embrace, but she cannot summon this one now! her vext spirit has not yet the power!" she examined the wound, and raising herself said, "no human hand can save her. the spirits alone have power: those spirits who prolong human life regardless of human ills; but they must be besought, and who will care to beseech them?" "prayers may save her," answered a stern voice, "but not prayers to devils! the holy virgin should we beseech, by whom all pure maidens are beloved. she will save her if it be god's will, or receive her into her bosom if it be decreed that she should die." the words were those of father austin, one of the monks of lihou, distinguished by his sanctity and the austerity of his habits. he was spare, as one who lived hardly; his grey eyes had a dreamy look betokening much inward contemplation, though they could be keen enough when, as now, the man was roused; there was a gentleness about his mouth which showed a nature filled with love and sympathy. the woman drew herself to her full stature, and turned on him a defiant look. "gods or devils!" she said in a ringing tone--"which you will! what can an immured anchorite know of the vast mysteries of the wind-borne spirits? is this child to live or die? my gods can save her; if yours can, let them take her! she is nought to me." "when elijah wrestled with the prophets of baal, where did victory rest?" said the priest, and he too stooped down and inspected the wound. "she is past cure," he said, rising sadly; "it remains but to pray for her soul." at this critical moment an agonizing shriek rang through the forest. the same runners who had sped to marie torode's cottage and had learnt there that the wise woman had in truth passed away, had brought back with them suzanne's mother, who threw herself on her child's body endeavouring to staunch the blood, and to restore animation. finding her efforts vain, she had listened anxiously to the words that had passed, and on hearing the priest's sentence of doom she burst into frantic grief and supplication. turning to each disputant she cried--"save her! save her young life! i suckled her, i reared her, i love her!--oh, how i love her!--do not let her die!" "she can be saved!" curtly responded the stranger. the priest was silent. a murmur arose. austin, who had trained himself to study those among whom he laboured, saw that the feeling was rising strongly against him. his antagonist saw it also, and pressed her victory. "yes!" she said scornfully, "it is a small matter for my gods to save her, but they will not be besought while this bald-pate obtrudes his presence. let him leave us!" the priest was much perplexed. he knew the skill of these lonely women; secretly he had faith in their power of witchcraft, though attributing it to the direct agency of satan. he thought it not impossible that there was truth in the boast; and his heart was wrung with the mother's grief. on the other hand, the public defeat was a sore trial; but it was clear to him that for the present at least the analogy of elijah's struggle was imperfect: he must wait, and meanwhile bear his discomfiture with meekness. he prepared to retire. the victor was not, however, even now satisfied. "take with you," she said, "yon idol that defaces the sacred oak!" the good fathers, following their usual practice of associating emblems of heathen with those of christian worship, in the hope of gradually diverting the reverence to the latter without giving to the former a ruder shock than could be endured, had suspended a small cross on the oak, hoping eventually to carve the tree itself into a sacred emblem; it was to this that the woman was pointing with a sneer. but this time she had made a blunder. father austin turned to the crucifix and his strength and fire returned. taking it from the tree, reverently kissing it and holding it aloft, he said solemnly--"let my brothers and sisters come with me! we will pray apart, where no profane words can reach us. perchance our prayers may be granted!" not a few of the hearers followed him; sufficient indeed to make an imposing procession: the triumph of the evil one was at least dimmed. but his adversary did not appear to notice their departure. she gave a sharp glance in the direction of the oak, and the now discrowned girl was quickly at her side. receiving some rapid instructions, the latter disappeared into the wood, and shortly returned with some herbs, which she passed to her companion; she then resumed her position by the stone. the old woman placed some leaves, which she selected, on the wound: the bleeding at once ceased; squeezing juice from the herbs, she applied an ointment made from it; then, opening a phial attached to her waist-belt, she poured some drops of liquid into the girl's mouth, gently parting her lips. this done, she stood erect and began an incantation, or rather a supplication, in an unknown tongue. as she proceeded her form became rigid, her eye gleamed, her arms, the hands clenched, were raised above her head. the sun flashed on the circlet, glittered on the embossed girdle: on the right arm was a heavy bracelet, composed of a golden serpent winding in weird folds round a human bone; the head was towards the wearer's wrist, and the jewelled eyes which, being of large size, must have been formed of rare stones, glowed and shot fire as the red beams struck on them through the branches. it seemed that a forked tongue darted in and out, but this may have been imagined by the heated fancies of the bystanders. the prayer ended; the stillness of death rested a moment on man and nature; then a wild gust of wind, striking the oak without any preliminary warning, bent and snapped the upper branches, and crashed inland through the swaying forest. the watchers saw the colour return to the cheeks of the wounded girl, who opened her eyes and sate up. "take her home," said the sorceress, now quite composed, to the mother; "she is yours again!--till marie calls her!" she added in a low voice to herself. the happy mother, shedding tears of joy, but in vain attempting to get her thanks accepted, obeyed the injunction. as she and her friends disappeared, the old woman, turning to the awed people who seemed more than ever disposed to look on her as a supernatural being, said sternly--"why linger you here? are you unmindful of your duties? see you not how the shadows lengthen?" these words produced a magical effect: the deep emotions by which the mass had been recently swayed were swiftly replaced by equally profound feelings of a different nature, as cloud succeeds cloud in a storm-swept sky. and now a singular scene was enacted. a procession was formed, headed by the old men, bare-headed; the musicians followed, behind whom walked with solemn step the younger members of the community. this procession, emerging from the western border of the forest, slowly climbed the slopes of the rocque du guet, and arriving at the summit bent its way seaward, halting at the edge of the precipitous cliff. the sun was nearing the horizon. the scene was one of unsurpassed loveliness. behind lay the central and southern portions of the island, hushed as if their primaeval rocks were still tenantless. the outlines of the isles of herm and jethou were visible, but already sinking into the shades of evening. on the left the bold bluffs of l'erée and lihou, on the right the rugged masses of the grandes and the grosses rocques, the gros commet, the grande and petite fourque, lay in sharpened outline, the lapping waves already assuming a grey tint. these masses formed the framework of a picture which embraced a boundless wealth of colour, an infinite depth of softness. straight from the sun shot out across cobo bay a joyous river of gold, so bright that eye could ill bear to face its glow; here and there in its course stood out quaintly-shaped rocks, some drenched with the fulness of the glorious bath, others catching now and again a sprinkling shower. on each side of the river the sea, clear to its depths where alternate sand and rock made a tangle of capriciously mingled light and shade; its surface, here blue as the still waters of the grotta azzurra, there green as the olive, here again red-brown as carthaginian marble, lay waveless, as with a sense that the beauty was too perfect to be disturbed. suddenly the scene was changed; the lustrous outflow was swiftly drawn in and absorbed; a grey hue swept over the darkening surface; in the distance the round, blood-coloured, orb hung above the expectant ocean. then all assembled fell on their knees. the music gave out sharp plaintive notes which were answered by the voices of men and women in short, wailing, as it were inquiring, rhythm; this continued till the sun was on the point of disappearance, when music and voices together burst into a sad chant, seemingly of farewell; the kneeling people extending their hands seaward with an appealing gesture. one figure only was erect; on the projecting boulder, which is still so conspicuous a feature of the rocque du guet, stood the sorceress, her arms also outstretched, her figure, firm, erect, sharply outlined, such as turner's mind conceived when he sketched the last man. father austin contemplated the scene from a distance. by his side was his favourite convert, jean letocq. "strange!" he said, placing his hand on his companion's shoulder. "your race are not sun-worshippers. never, except on this day of the year, do they show this feeling; but who that saw them to-day would doubt that they are so! is it that from old times their intense love of nature has led them to show in this way their sadness at its decay? or do they by mourning over the close of the sun's longest day symbolize their recognition of the inevitable end of the longest life of man? i cannot tell. but, blind as this worship is, it is better than that of the work of man's hands. by god's will your countrymen may be led from kneeling to the created to mount the ladder till they bend the knee only to the creator. it may be well, too, that their chosen object of veneration is the only object in nature which dies but to rise again. thus may they be led to the comprehension of the great truth of the resurrection. but satan," he added with warmth, "must be wrestled with and cast down, specially when he takes the forms of temptation which he has assumed to-day: those of power and beauty. prayer and fasting are sorely needed." for once his pupil was not altogether docile. "thou hast taught me, father," he replied, "the lesson of charity. this old woman is sinful, her error is deep, but may she not be converted and saved?" "the devils can never regain paradise," replied the priest sternly. "arm thyself, jean, against their wiles, in which i fear thou art already entangled. the two forms we have to-day seen are but human in seeming: demons surely lurked beneath." jean was now in open rebellion. "nay, good father," he said decisively, "the maiden was no fiend; if her companion be an imp of darkness, as well she may, be it my task to rescue her from the evil snare into which she has fallen!" he had indeed a vivid recollection of the soft, human hand to which he had ventured to give a gentle pressure when he had assisted in placing the wreath on the fair, marble, brow, and had no doubt of the girl's womanhood. as he spoke he vanished from the side of the priest, who, seeing the two objects of his pious aversion entering the darkening glades of the wood, was at no loss to divine the cause of his disappearance. the holy father shook his head, and sighed deeply. he was accustomed to disappointments, but this day his path had to an unusual extent been beset with thorns. his faith was unshaken, and he humbly laid the fault on his own shoulders, promising further privations to his already sorely afflicted body. meanwhile he descended the hill, directing his course to lihou. pausing on his way through the forest to replace the cross on the oak, he saw jean, walking slowly homewards, his listless step showing that his quest had failed. the evil one had, he thought, for the time at least, forborne to press his advantage. further off he heard the scattered voices of the dispersing throng. chapter iii. devotion. "there glides a step through the foliage thick, and her cheek grows pale and her heart beats quick, there whispers a voice through the rustling leaves, and her blush returns, and her bosom heaves; a moment more--and they shall meet. 'tis past--her lover's at her feet." _parasina_.--byron. after visiting all the accessible parts of the island jean satisfied himself that it was useless to search further in them for traces of the strangers. persons so remarkable could not, it was clear, conceal themselves from the knowledge of the inhabitants. he must therefore either admit that the monk's surmise was correct, or must search in quarters hitherto unexplored. though his rejection of the former alternative was a foregone conclusion, his adoption of the latter was a remarkable proof of the strength of his passion. there was only one district unexplored, and that was practically unapproachable. early in the sixth century some piratical vessels had entered rocquaine bay in a shattered condition; the crews succeeded in landing, but the ships, for seagoing purposes, were beyond repair. the pirates penetrated inland, driving out the inhabitants from torteval and some of the adjoining valleys. here they settled; and being skilled in hunting and fishing, having a fair knowledge of husbandry, and finding the position peculiarly adapted for their marauding pursuits, throve and prospered: so much so that when, some years afterwards, they had an opportunity of leaving, the majority elected to remain. their descendants had continued to occupy the same district. who they were, whether pure northmen or of some mixed race, it would be idle to conjecture: they were originally put down by the islanders as sarrazins, that being the name under which the simple people classed all pirates; the strangers, however, resented this description, and had consequently come to be spoken of as les voizins, a definition to which no exception could be taken. hardy and warlike, quick of temper and rough of speech, they had an undisputed ascendancy over the natives, to whom, though dangerous if provoked, they had often given powerful aid in times of peril. on the whole they made not bad neighbours, but a condition was imposed by them the violation of which was never forgiven: no native was permitted, under any pretext, to enter their territory; death was the sure fate of an intruder found in rocquaine bay or setting foot in the voizin hills or valleys. whatever may have been the cause of this regulation the result had been to keep the race as pure as it was on the day of the first landing. now it was in the terre des voizins that jean had resolved to seek his beloved, and his resolution was unalterable. he knew the danger; he wished to avoid death if possible; he meant to employ to the full the resources at his command; foolhardy as his enterprise seemed it was long and carefully planned. he knew that in the summer evenings it was the custom of the voizin women to visit the sunny shores of the bay: this he had seen from lihou; could he then succeed in landing unperceived, and in concealing himself in one of the many clefts of the rocks, he felt sure that if the well-known form were there he would descry it; what would follow afterwards was a question which had taken many fantastic shapes in his imagination, none of which had assumed a definite form. towards the close of july the conditions were favourable for his attempt. in the night a strong tide would be running into the bay; the wind was south-westerly, the moon set early. he prepared to start. he had selected a small and light boat, which would travel fast under his powerful strokes, and might be so handled as not to attract attention; in it he had stored provisions which would last for a few days and a small cask of fresh water. towards evening he shaped his course for lihou. he had seen but little of the monk since the day of the feast, but he was yearning to see him now. his love for the man, his reverence for the truths he taught, his thought of his own future if he lost his life in his rash expedition, all urged him to seek a parting interview. the brothers received him affectionately and bade him join their frugal meal. the monks were five in number: they had been six, but one had recently been drowned while returning from a pious mission to herm. jean knew them all; they were honest, god-fearing men, trustful and truthful. if their reasoning powers were not great, their faith was unswerving. their life was a prolonged asceticism, and they had fair reason to expect that martyrdom would be their earthly crown. the only exceptional feature of the repast was the appearance of one who had never yet been seated there in jean's presence; this guest was the hermit who dwelt on the extreme point, against which the atlantic waves dashed in their fiercest fury. the recluse did not seem to cultivate the duty of abstemiousness, but he maintained silence. jean could not forbear furtively scanning his appearance, which was indeed remarkable. he would have been of large stature in any country; compared with the natives his proportions were gigantic. his broad shoulders and muscular arms betokened enormous strength; his hair and beard were fair; his blue eyes had a clear, frank, expression; there was firmness of purpose in his massive jaw; he seemed between forty and fifty, and would have been strikingly handsome but for three deep scars which totally marred the expression of his features. as jean eyed him he returned the compliment, but the meal was soon over and the youth accompanied father austin to his cell. there a long and sleepless night was passed by both. the monk in vain endeavoured to combat jean's resolution; he argued, prayed, indeed threatened, but without effect. finding his efforts hopeless he abandoned them, and endeavoured to fortify his charge against the influence of the spell under which he believed him to have fallen. then the young man was again the pupil; he listened humbly and reverently to the repetition of the great truths which the father strove to rivet on his mind, and joined earnestly in the prayers for truth and constancy. as daylight broke, and he at length laid himself down to rest, his latest vision was that of the good man kneeling by him with that rapt look of contemplation which seemed to foreshadow his immortality. jean slept profoundly for some hours. when night began to fall he received austin's blessing, no further reference being made to his expedition, and when the moon was on the eve of disappearance he launched his boat. as he rounded lihou point another boat shot out, the occupant of which hailed him. recognizing the hermit, jean paused. "you steer wrong," said the giant, speaking with an accent which at once reminded his hearer of that of the maiden; "your course is to the rising sun." "i go where i will," replied jean, nettled at this unlooked-for interruption. "youth," answered the other, "i have watched thee and wish thee well! rush not heedlessly to certain death!" "stay me not!" resolutely answered jean, wondering at the interest taken in him by this strange being. "thou knowest not!" said the hermit sternly; "it is not only from death i wish to save thee, but from worse than death; i tell thee i--" he checked himself, as if fearful of saying too much, and bent his eyes searchingly into those of jean, who murmured simply, "i am resolved." "then god help thee and speed thee!" said the giant. glancing into the boat he saw one of the curved and pierced shells then, as now, used by guernsey seamen as signal-horns: pointing to it he said, "if in peril, where a blast may be heard on lihou, sound the horn twice: it is a poor hope but may serve thee!" he was gone. jean paddled into the dreaded bay; the moon had now sunk and he was further favoured by a slight mist. knowing the tides from infancy, he worked his way noiselessly till he approached where the voizin fleet lay, then laid himself down and let the current take him. he passed several boats in safety; as far as he could judge, from the observations he had taken from lihou, he was nearly past the anchorage when a crash, succeeded by a grating sound, warned him of danger. a curse, followed by an ejaculation of surprise and pleasure, enlightened him as to the nature of the collision: he was in contact with one of the anchored vessels. "odin is good!" cried a voice; "ha! a skiff drifted from a wrecked vessel! and all eyes but mine sleeping!" the speaker threw over a small anchor and grappled the boat. jean was prepared; without a moment's hesitation he cut the anchor-rope: his craft drifted onwards, leaving the fisherman grumbling at the rottenness of his tackle. he offered a short prayer of gratitude, and in a few minutes ventured cautiously to resume his oars. he heard the breaking of the waves, but seamanship on the unknown and indistinct coast was useless. two sharp blows, striking the boat in rapid succession, told him that he had touched a submerged rock; the strong tide carried him off it, but the water poured in through a gaping rent. he was now, however, on a sandy bottom: he sprang out, pulled the boat up as far as possible, and sat down to wait for light. the first break of dawn showed him his position: he was facing northward; he was therefore on the hanois arm of the bay. fortune had indeed been kind to him, for he had drifted into a small cleft sheltered by precipitous rocks, a place where concealment was fairly possible, as it was accessible only by land at the lowest tides. he examined his store of provisions, which was uninjured; storing it among the rocks he rested till the sun sank. he then cautiously climbed the cliff, and looked on the scene revealed by the moonlight. seawards stood a rough round tower; no other building was visible on the point, which seemed deserted. the loneliness gave him courage; when the moon set, the night being clear, he explored further and satisfied himself that there were no human beings, except the occupants of the tower, living on these rocks. he retired to his hiding-place to rest; before dawn he again ascended and concealed himself among the bracken and brambles which formed the only available shelter. during the whole day he saw but one person, an elderly woman, whose dark features and bright kerchief showed her to be of southern or gipsy origin, and who passed backwards and forwards carrying water to the tower. his examination increased his confidence; he calculated, by measuring the time occupied by the old woman in passing with an empty and returning with a full pitcher, that the spring frequented by her could not be far distant; at night he found it just beyond the junction of the rocks with the mainland. the water was cool and fresh, and considerably revived him; he noticed too that the luxuriant brushwood, nourished by the moisture, offered a good place for concealment; he returned, removed thither what remained of his provisions, and ensconced himself in his new retreat. in the morning he saw two figures approaching from the tower; one was the same servant he had seen before, but the other!--his heart throbbed and leaped, his brain reeled, his eyes gazed hungrily; he could not be, he was not, mistaken!--the second figure was the heroine of his dreams! she walked silently. jean saw that memory had not played him false: her beauty, her grace, were no freak of his imagination; would the holy father now say that she was a devil, while thus she moved in her loveliness, a woman to be loved and worshipped!--a very woman, too! not above the cares of life! seating herself by the spring she despatched her companion on an errand to supply domestic wants, promising to await her return. jean's principal characteristic was rapid resolution: he reasoned that a small alarm might make the girl fly; that his chance of retaining her was an overpowering shock. he stepped boldly out and stood before her. the maiden sprang quickly to her feet; there was no terror in her face; she was of true blood; if she was afraid she did not show it; it was clear she recognized the apparition, but intense surprise, overpowering other emotions, kept her dumb. jean had thus the chance of speaking first, and deftly he used his opportunity. in a few rapid sentences he told the tale of his search, of his adventures, of his selection of his hiding-place; then he paused. the maiden was not long in finding words. there was a flush on her cheek and a tear hanging on her eyelash which made jean very happy. "you must go," she said, "but where? your life is forfeit! forfeit to the gods!" she shuddered as she said this. "in yonder tower lives my mother, on the shore are my people; there is no escape on either hand! a chance has saved you hitherto; none dare approach our home without my mother's permission, which is rarely given; but on this spot they may find you, may seize you, may--!" she stopped, with an expression of horror, and covered her face with her hands. but jean was not anxious; he was radiant with happiness. he seated himself and spoke of love, deep passionate love; so gentle was he, so soft, so courteous, and yet so ardent, that the maiden trembled; when he dared to take her hand she did not withdraw it. the moment of bliss was brief; a step was heard. "hide yourself quickly," she whispered, "tita is returning." jean promptly obeyed the injunction. the old woman arrived with a well-filled wallet, and looked fondly at her young mistress. the signs of recent agitation struck her. "what has befallen thee, hilda?" she cried anxiously. the girl took her arm and led her seawards. jean, watching, could see the start and angry expression of the older, the coaxing, pleading attitude of the younger woman; he could satisfy himself that the resistance of the former was gradually being overcome, and as they returned he saw that the maiden's victory was indisputable. she summoned jean, who was inspected by tita at first with distrust, then with modified approval. "you must stay here," said the maiden earnestly, "closely hidden till nightfall; my absence has been already sufficiently long, and nothing can be done while daylight lasts." bidding him farewell she sped with her guardian towards the tower, while jean retired to his bushes a prey to fond thoughts and feverish hopes. before sundown he saw the tall figure of the sorceress wending landwards. she did not approach the spring. hilda quickly followed with her former companion. "we have a long journey," she said, "and short time: we must start at once." removing all traces of his lair he obeyed without hesitation. they ascended the steep cliff. the night was clear, the moon at this hour was bright and lustrous. "we have three hours," said the maiden, "ere we leave our guest!"--she looked archly at jean as she thus described him--"it should suffice!" they were now on the heights of pleinmont; no one was moving, though voices of men and beasts could be plainly heard in the distance. "they feast to-night to the gods," said hilda; "we need fear only some belated laggard!" the heather was not yet springing, but jean could see that gorse was on the bloom, which he considered a favourable omen: they stepped out bravely on the short springy turf. tita's steps were slower than those of the young pair, who were deaf to her calls for delay. never to his dying day did jean forget that happy night-walk. his soul was poured out in love, and he knew that his love was returned. he was steeped to the full in joy; no thought of future cares or perils crossed his mind. they had passed three or four headlands before the girl halted and waited for her attendant, who came up muttering to herself and grumbling; compliments from jean and caresses from hilda restored her good humour, and the work of the evening commenced. "follow me closely," said the girl; "let your eye be keen and your step firm: the descent is no child's sport." jean looked at the cliff, fitted for the flight of gull or cormorant rather than the foot of man, still less of gentle maiden: hilda was already over the brink: jean, following, saw that she was on a path no broader than a goat's track; the difficulties of the descent need not be described; it was possible for a clear head and practised foot, to the nervous or the unsteady the attempt must have been fatal. arrived at the bottom the climbers found themselves in a small cleft strewn with huge boulders; the rocks towered high above them. hilda glanced at the moon. "we must be quick," said she, showing him some deep caverns in the rock; "there," she said, "is your home. here you are safe; my mother alone knows the secret of these caves. i must mount again; you must climb with me to mark the path more closely." she sprang to the rock and commenced to ascend as nimbly as she had come down. jean saw the necessity of taking every precaution; he noted carefully each feature of the track. arrived at the summit she bade him farewell. she pointed out a place where tita would from time to time leave him provisions, and said that he would find water in the caves; she then tripped quickly off. jean did not linger, seeing that if he did so light would fail him for his return. he crossed the track for the third time, reached the caves, and slept soundly till dawn. when he awoke he inspected his strange retreat. he was in a large hall, two hundred feet long, and some fifty feet high and broad; this chamber was entered by a small orifice of no great length, through which he had passed on the preceding night; it was warm, and dry except where the stream of which hilda had spoken trickled through to the sea. it was the fissure now known as the creux mahie, and to which an easy access has been arranged for the benefit of the curious. here jean passed three months. hilda frequently visited him, and always kept him supplied with food; she warned him also when he might safely roam on the cliffs above. there was no obstacle to her visits, even when they extended to a considerable length, as the mother seemed always to be satisfied as to her absences when tita accompanied her; and the latter, whose infirmities prevented her from descending, had no means of shortening the interviews. thus the lovers had opportunity to study each other's characters. the maiden's pure heart knew no distrust, and jean was faithful and chivalrous as sir galahad. they spoke not always of love: words were unnecessary to explain what every look betokened. jean found her skilled in strange, mystical, lore, but ignorant of all that sways and rules mankind. the history of the selfish struggles of human interests and passions was to her a sealed book. she had been carefully shrouded from the knowledge of evil; but, in order to protect her in the rough turbulent little world in which she lived, it had been necessary to keep her from association with her countrymen, and so she had never mingled with them except under the charge of her mother, in whose presence the fiercest were submissive. jean, therefore, in speaking to her of family intercourse, of the intermingling of members of the household, of bright chat with friends, opened up to her views of life of which she had formed no conception. then he told her of his own people; described the three generations living under one roof; depicted the daily round, the care of the old and the young, the work, the return of the workers to their wives, sisters, and children, the love of the mothers for their infants, the reverence for age, the strong mutual affection of husband and wife, brother and sister. to these descriptions she listened with a happy smile, the mission of woman dawning on her; and many were the questions she asked, till she seemed to have mastered the pictures painted for her. above all, jean strained to bring her to the knowledge of the god of the christian, for he himself was an earnest, intelligent disciple. he found her mind clearer than he had expected. judith (this he now knew was the mother's name) was a remarkable woman; her mind was lofty, if darkened. while others were satisfied with the grossness of a material creed her spirit soared aloft. her gods commanded her implicit faith, her unswerving allegiance. seated on the storm-clouds, sweeping through space, they represented to her infinite force. she attributed to them no love for mankind, which was in her creed rather their plaything, but she credited them with the will and the power to scatter good and ill before they claimed the soul of the hero to their fellowship, or cast into a lower abyss that of the coward or the traitor. she believed that she saw their giant forms half bending from their vapoury thrones, and she thought that she read their decrees. sorceress she may have been; in those days sorcery was attributed to many who had obtained a knowledge of laws of nature, then considered occult, now recognized among the guiding principles from which scientific deductions are drawn. she believed in the power of magic, which she was universally understood to possess; but she was no vulgar witch: rather was she a worthy priestess of her not ignoble deities. the effect upon hilda's mind of the teachings of such a woman is easy to conceive. she had been allowed to know little of the wild orgies of the barbaric feasts offered to the gods by her countrymen, of their brutal excesses, of their human sacrifices: from this knowledge she had been as far as possible shielded: she knew only of the dim mystic beings, half men, half gods, from whose wrath she shrank with terror. to a mind so constituted and trained the revelation of the story of the infant christ was a passionate pleasure. she never tired of listening to the tale of the birth in the stable of bethlehem; but she loved not to dwell on the history of the passion and death, which was at that time beyond her understanding. she drank in with parted lips all that concerned the holy mother, of whom she was never weary of hearing. jean had a rude drawing of the madonna and child, given him by father austin: the figures had the angularity and rigidity of byzantine art, but the artist had represented his subject with reverence, and no lack of skill, and she loved to dwell on the pure mother's face, and on the longing look in the eyes of the child. she accepted wholly the idea of a god who loved mankind, of infinite goodness and mercy: if she could not as yet enter into the subtlety of doctrine she could give that childlike faith which is the envy of doctrinarians. chapter iv. revelation. "i curse the hand that did the deid, the heart that thocht the ill, the feet that bore him wi' sik speid, the comely youth to kill." _gil morrice_.--old ballad. jean had often expressed his curiosity to see the interior of the tower, and hilda had promised to gratify it. on the 25th of october an opportunity occurred. she informed her lover that on that day a feast of unusual importance would be held from which none would be absent, and that her mother would be engaged at it from noon to midnight. on that day, therefore, he walked freely along the cliffs, and was admitted to the dwelling. he had unconsciously based his idea of its contents upon his recollections of the squalid abode of marie torode, where human skulls, skeletons, bones of birds and beasts, dried skins, and other ghastly objects had been so grouped as to add to the superstitious feeling inspired by the repulsive appearance of the crone herself. his astonishment was therefore proportionate when he saw what to his eyes appeared exceptional luxury. a wooden partition divided the room on the lower story into two chambers of unequal size: the larger, in which he stood, was the common dwelling apartment, the other was given over to hilda. the upper story, approached by a ladder and also by an external staircase, was sacred to judith; tita occupied some outbuildings. the sitting-room was hung with rich stuffs of warm and glowing colours; here and there fitful rays of the sun flickered upon gold brocade and oriental embroidery; rugs and mats, which must have been offered for sale in the bazaars of egypt and morocco, were littered about in strange contrast with the bracken-strewed floor. on the walls were inlaid breastplates and helmets, pieces of chain armour, swords and daggers of exquisite workmanship. on shelves stood drinking vessels of rougher make, but the best that northern craftsmen could produce. the seats were rude and massive: one of them, placed by a window fronting the setting sun, was evidently the favourite resting-place of judith. above this seat was a shelf on which lay some of the mysterious scrolls of which jean had seen specimens in the possession of the fathers. instruments of witchcraft, if such existed, must have been in the upper story: none were visible. all this splendour was manifestly inconsistent with the homely taste and abstracted mode of thought of the sorceress. in point of fact she was hardly aware of its existence. the decorator was tita, in whom was the instinct of the connoisseur, supported by no inconsiderable knowledge to which she had attained in those early years of which she never could be induced to speak. when a rich prize was brought into the bay, freighted with a cargo from asia, africa, or the european shores of the mediterranean, she never failed to attend the unloading, during which, by the help of cajolery, judicious depreciation, and other ingenious devices still dear to the virtuoso, she succeeded in obtaining possession of articles which would have enraptured a modern collector. judith was apparently indifferent to a habit which she looked upon as a caprice of her faithful servant, and the only evidence of her noticing it was her concentration in her own apartments of all that related to her personal studies and pursuits. it was now jean's turn to listen and learn, and hilda's to explain and instruct. towards nine o'clock he was preparing to return. he was indifferent to the darkness, as by this time he knew the track so well that he crossed it fearlessly at all hours. his hand was on the bolt when tita announced in alarm that judith was returning and was on the point of entering. hardly was there time to conceal him behind the hangings before she appeared. her countenance was pale and worn, her tone, as hilda took off her outer garments was weary and sad. "the portents were hostile and dangerous," she said; "they foretold woe, disaster, ruin. will the mighty ones reveal to me the future? i cannot tell! but my spirit must commune with them till dawn breaks. dost hear them? they call me now!" she held up her finger as a sudden blast rocked the tower to its foundations. "aye," she continued more firmly after a pause, "they will not forget those who are true to them. but this people! this people!" she hid her face with her hands as if to cover a painful vision. after a time she rose to her feet and took the girl by the hand. leading her to the seat by the window on which she placed herself, and making her kneel by her side, she said-"hilda! the chill mist closes round! my life draws to its end! nay, weep not, child! were it not for thee i would long ere this have prayed the gods my masters to remove me from my sojourn among the degenerate sons of our noble fathers; but i trembled for thy fate, sweet one!" these last words were almost inexpressibly tender. "i dared not trust thy slight frame to battle unsheltered with the storm. now the blast summoning me is sounded. i cannot much longer disobey, though i may crave for brief respite. but i have found thee refuge! thou wilt be in a safe haven. stay! i must speak while the spirit is on me!" "mother!" sobbed the girl, clasping the old woman's knees. "hilda!" said judith slowly, "call me no longer by that name! i am not thy mother; before men only do i call thee daughter. silence!" she exclaimed imperatively, as hilda looked quickly up, doubting whether she heard aright. "silence! and listen!" "i have loved thee truly, child, and have nurtured thee as a mother would! and thou art no stranger! the same blood runs in our veins! yes! thou art mine! for thy father was my brother. does not that give thee to me? hush! thou shalt hear the tale." hilda's were not the only ears that drank in every word of the following story. "twenty years ago what a demi-god was haco! he was a giant, but even men who feared him loved him. though brave and strong as odin himself, his mind was gentle and kind as a maiden's; first in council, in war, in manly sports, he ever had an open ear and a helping hand for the troubled and distressed. he was adored, nay, worshipped, by all. what wonder then that when he and the proud chief algar courted the same maiden, he was preferred! thou knowest not, hilda, the mysteries of a tender heart; may it be long indeed before thy heart is seared by human passion!" it was fortunate that darkness hid the burning blush which suffused hilda's face and neck at this pious wish. judith proceeded:--"thy father wedded and thou wast born. he poured on thy infant form all the wealth of his great generous heart. algar nursed his revenge: he dared not act openly, for our house was as noble as his own--nay, nobler!" she added haughtily, "but he bided his time. haco's tower was near the shore, a pleasant, lovely, spot. one night the news was borne to me that enemies had landed, and that his dwelling was in flames; i hurried towards it; i was stopped by armed warriors; algar's men, they said, had hastened to the rescue; the chief had ordered that no women should leave their homes. it was in vain that i urged and protested. when at last i reached the spot the struggle was said to be over, and the assailants, beaten off, were declared to have sailed away. algar himself came to me with well-assumed grief. he had arrived, he swore, too late to save. the tower had been fired whilst the inmates slept, the wife and child had perished; haco, after performing incredible feats of valour, had fallen before the strokes of numerous foes; when he himself had come with a chosen band, while sending the rest of his forces to other posts which the unforeseen danger might threaten, nothing remained but to avenge the murder. why recount the caitiffs lies? where were the signs of landing, of hasty re-embarkation? where were the dead of the strangers? thrown into the sea! he said; it was foul falsehood, and fouler treachery. i found your father's body; he was smitten and gashed, but nobler than the living. i touched him and was silent. i knew what none others guessed. i arose. the spirits of the gods came over me, and i cursed his slayer. never had i spoken so fiercely; men stood and wondered. i prayed the gods to make the wretch who had caused my darling's death miserable by land and by sea, by day and by night, in the field and at the board, loathed by his friends, and scorned by his foes. the gods heard my imprecations; as i turned my eyes skywards they looked from their clouds, wrath kindling on their brows, and algar's face was white with fear, his hand trembled and his knee shook. "'we must bury him,' he faltered. "'yea,' said i, 'but in a hero's grave, and after the custom of our fathers.' "there was a murmur of applause. algar could not refuse. "they brought the choicest of the boats, they made the sails bright and gay, they put in it the dead man's arms, and food to accompany him to the land of spirits. then they bound him before the mast, his face turned seaward. at sundown they towed the boat to deep water, so pierced her that she might sink slowly under the waves, and then they left the hero to his rest. i had gone out with them: alone i said to him my last farewell. but they did not know my secret. they did not guess that i had ascertained by my art that life was yet in him, that i had poured between his lips subtle drops which would maintain animation for many days and nights, during which consciousness might be restored; nor did they imagine that when i kneeled before him i had stopped the leak by which the water was to flow into the doomed boat. algar was now the deceived; it was a living man, not a corpse, who started on that voyage. haco lives still, though where my art cannot tell. i thought that marie torode knew, and sought her on her death-bed to question her, but either she could not or she would not tell." hilda's mind was in such confusion that she could not speak. the old woman continued. "algar lived on--yes, lived that he might suffer all the evils with which my curse loaded him, and died that he might be hurled into the abyss where traitors and cravens writhe and groan. enough of him! "when i returned to my tower, a figure was crouching before the hearth: it was tita, and you were in her arms. the faithful creature, whom your father had chosen from a band of captives to be your nurse, had, unperceived, saved your life from the flames. thenceforward you were my care. i took your mother's place as best i could. others knew not your parentage, nor did they dare to question me. none suspected the truth." when she reached this point she bent over the kneeling girl and gave her a kiss, tender as a mother's if not a mother's kiss; her fingers caressed the head bowed upon her knees; for a time the silence was only broken by hilda's sobs. she then spoke again, this time quickly, sternly, as if to prevent interruption. "i cannot leave thee alone, and i will not! listen, child, and be silent! what i now tell thee is beyond thy young understanding: thou hast but to shape thy will to my bidding: it is for me to launch thy vessel on its voyage, the gods will help thy riper judgment to steer its course! the time has come when thou must wed! i have chosen for thee a suitor, the chief to whom all thy countrymen bend the knee. garthmund claims thee as his bride; ere eight days expire the marriage feast will be held. he is of noble birth, there is none nobler; he is young and strong, and should be favoured by the gods if he prove worthy of them. he is a fitting bridegroom for haco's daughter." the girl was dazed and trembling. she knew this chief: he answered judith's description, but was rough and coarse. had she not met jean she might not have dared to refuse, but now she felt that death would be more welcome than this marriage. "spare me, mother!" she said, as if she had not heard the disclaimer of maternity. "i am too young, too weak." the old woman pressed her hand on the girl's lips. "we will not speak further to-night," she said; "thou canst not see garthmund for three days, for so long the feast will last. may the gods protect thee!" she rose: the fitful moonlight streamed on her gaunt form; she turned and slowly ascended to her chamber. the terrified girl quickly released jean, who led her from the tower. if she was broken and trembling he was erect and resolute; no longer the soft lover, but the prompt man of action. she felt the bracing influence. "we have three days," he said. "within that time we must flee. i will not return to the cave; my task must be to repair the boat." he mentioned certain articles which he begged her to provide, pressed her to his breast, and disappeared in the darkness. at daylight he examined the little vessel. she was no worse than she had been, as each incoming tide, reaching the place where she was secured, had floated her, but the rock had opened a large jagged fissure. hilda brought him such materials as she could procure, a log of wood, bark which she stitched with her own hands, a hatchet and nails. jean utilized also the vraick with which the sand was strewn. he worked without fear of detection, knowing that the whole population was inland; but the lovers had to rely on themselves alone, for, when there was a question of flight, tita was no longer to be trusted. on the third day jean found the boat fairly seaworthy. hilda felt a severe pang at leaving judith, who had not reverted to the subject of her marriage. whether her parent or not, she loved her dearly; she felt also the pain of parting with tita, but her resolution never swerved. she had given her heart to jean; she felt also a presentiment that she would discover her father; while it was her belief that the parting from her old associates was but temporary. when the sun went down jean set his sail, meaning to make a rapid dash across the bay, and seeing no cause for concealing his movements. there was more swell than he liked for so frail a craft, but wind and tide were favourable to the enterprise, and the night was exceptionally bright, the moon being full; this brightness would have been fatal had the inhabitants been on the alert, but under present circumstances the pale beams were welcome. hilda took the helm; she knew every passage in the labyrinth of submerged rocks, and they were soon in comparatively open water. jean then assumed control, wrapping the maiden in his cloak, for the waves were tossing their spray over the boat as she heeled over to the breeze. they had traversed in safety three-fourths of their course when jean, looking seaward, saw a dark sail bearing down on them. one of the pirate ships, delayed by contrary winds, was hurrying homeward, the crew of five men hoping to arrive ere the feast was over. jean's hope that the boat might not be discovered was soon dispelled: the vessel altered her course slightly and hailed. jean made no answer. the pirate was evidently in no mood to parley; the crew were in a fierce temper, angry and discontented at the postponement of their arrival. she made a deliberate attempt to run the boat down. jean divined her object and, putting up his helm sharply at the right moment, let her shoot by him astern; he then resumed his course. a second attempt was clumsier, and was easily evaded; the assailants were hurried and impatient; nor did they know the seamanlike qualities of the man with whom they were dealing. but jean saw that ultimate escape was hopeless, and this was equally apparent to hilda who, however, though pale as death, gave a firm pressure of the hand in response to his grasp. at this moment an object glimmered under the youth's feet: stooping down he touched the shell. the hermit's parting words flashed on his mind: he seized on the hope of rescue, and sounded two loud and clear blasts. the pirates now altered their tactics. handling their vessel with more care they succeeded, after two or three unsuccessful attempts, in ranging alongside and grappling the boat. a man sprung on board and seized hilda. "a rare booty!" he cried,--"the gods repent of their waywardness." jean was engaged with those of the crew who had seized the boat; the man laughingly gave the girl a rough embrace: it was the last act he had to record before entering the spirit world. hilda drew from her bosom one of the daggers which jean had noticed on the tower walls, whose blade, still sharp and keen, might have been forged by a damascus smith; it struck deep to the heart of the ruffian, who fell lifeless into the waves. jean had now freed the craft, but the respite was short: before she had made much progress she was again captured. the pirates, furious at the death of their comrade, made a determined onslaught. jean, fighting desperately, received from behind a terrific blow which laid him senseless. but a superstitious feeling made them hesitate before committing further outrage; they had recognized hilda, and feared the consequence of judith's vengeance if she were injured. there was no time, however, for delay; the, rude repairs, torn by the trampling feet, had given way, and the leak had re-opened: the boat was fast sinking. the pirates cared not for jean's lifeless body; that might sink or swim; but they felt they must save the girl whatever might be her future doom. even their hearts softened somewhat as they watched her erect in the sinking boat, her face pallid, her fair hair shining in the moonlight, but her lips set, her lovely eyes bent tearless on her prostrate lover, her right hand, holding the blood-stained dagger, hanging listlessly by her side. watching an opportunity, a stalwart youth seized her from behind and pinned her arms. the next moment he himself was seized as if he were a dog, and hurled into the water. the new combatant, whose arrival had so effectually changed the aspect of affairs, was the hermit, who followed up his first stroke by another still more decisive. springing into the pirate craft, wrenching a weapon from the grasp of the chief of the assailants, he drove before him the three remaining men, terror-struck at his sudden and inexplicable appearance, his superhuman size and strength. one by one he swept them overboard; then grasping a huge stone, which formed part of the ballast, he dashed it with the full force of his gigantic strength through the planks of the boat, which at once began to fill. all this was the work of a few moments. he then leaped into the skiff, which sank as he swiftly transferred to his own vessel its two occupants. before another hour was over, jean, stretched on a pallet, was receiving the attention of loving hands in a cell of the lihou monastery. chapter v. affliction. "the race of thor and odin held their battles by my side, and the blood of man was mingling warmly with my chilly tide." _danube and the euxine_.--aytoun. father austin received his pupil's companion with the courtesy due to her distress, but with much misgiving. after tending his patient, whose situation was critical, he paced thoughtfully towards the cell in which he had placed her, revolving in his mind the difficulties of the case. his amazement was intense when he slowly opened the door. the maiden was kneeling, her back towards him; before her was the little picture of the madonna; she was praying aloud; her words were simple but passionately pathetic; she threw herself and her lover upon the mercy of the holy mother with a trust so absolute, a confidence so infinite, that the monk could hardly refrain from tears. how had he been blinded! as he looked and listened the scales fell from his eyes: he humbly owned his error. the noise of his step startled her; she rose and looked at him inquiringly. "maiden," he said, answering her appealing look, "his fate is in the hands of god, whose ears are ever open to the prayers of those that fear him." often and often had jean spoken to her of father austin; she loved him already, but she had yet to fathom the nobleness of his soul. his single-heartedness and abnegation of self, his tenderness and quick sympathy (virtues tempering his fierce abhorrence of paganism), his stern reprobation of the evil, and his yearning for the good, in the untutored barbarians among whom he laboured, were gradually revealed in the discourses which they held daily while jean lay between life and death. reaping and garnering what jean had sown, he scattered fresh seed, opening out to her the great history of god in man. qualities hitherto unsuspected in her developed; if an apt pupil, she was an instructive teacher of the wealth of charity and purity that dwells in an untainted woman's heart. and she had another friend: the hermit watched over her with touching care and assiduity. he appeared strangely attracted to her; the holy fathers marvelled to see this rough being, who had seemed to them an animal to be feared while pitied, caring for the maiden's comfort with a woman's gentleness: he seemed never weary of contemplating her, sometimes murmuring to himself as he did so. any little delicacy that the island could afford, game, fish, shellfish, was provided for her by him. once, thinking her couch hard, he disappeared and returned bearing, whence none knew, soft stuffs better fitted for her tender form; on this occasion the whole man seemed transformed, when he stepped in with a smile in his big frank eyes, and a ruddy glow on his bronzed scarred cheeks, placed his offering at her feet, and strode away. strange, too, to say, hilda seemed to return the feeling: happy in the presence of austin, she was yet with him as the pupil with the master; but with the recluse she was gentle, affectionate, and even playful. the monks attempted not to solve the puzzle of the bond that knitted together the two strange beings; analysis of character troubled little their saintly minds. at length consciousness returned; jean opened his eyes and recognised austin. this was a joyful moment. quiet was all that was now necessary to complete the restoration of his health, which could not, however, be anticipated for a considerable time. the first inquiry of the patient was for hilda, and he was allowed to see her; on the next day they were permitted to interchange a few words, after which austin explained what he had already decided. hilda, he pointed out, could not fitly remain in lihou, where she had been allowed to reside only until her lover was out of danger; the laws of the establishment, which forbade the presence of women, must now be put in force, but a fitting home had been provided for her; she would be placed with the sisters at the vale; the hermit would conduct her thither on the following day. the girl bowed to this decision, sorely as she grieved to leave him she loved; the next morning they parted, and she embarked with her guardian who, shielding her lovingly from all harm, placed her, ere nightfall, in her new abode. judith had not discovered the girl's departure till the sun was well up, when she heard of her absence from the frantic tita. the old woman's force of character was colossal; pettinesses, small passions, were unknown to her. had her sphere been larger her promptitude of resource, keenness of perception, resolute look onwards and upwards, solidity of purpose, and incisive action might have graven her name on the tables of history. stagnating in the shallow pools of the unstoried rocks in which she passed her life, these grand qualities were wasted and perverted. she lost no time now in recrimination; a few sharp questions enabled her to judge how far the weakness of affection had played the traitor with the old woman, whom she left to settle matters with her own conscience. she saw garthmund, and told him that, in consequence of the unsatisfactory augury of the last sacrifice, she had decided to postpone the marriage. nor did she appear to notice the indifference with which the chief, who could not pretend that he ardently loved a bride who was practically a stranger to him, received the decision. it took her some time to discover where hilda had taken refuge; it speaks ill for female reticence that she discovered it shortly after the girl's removal to the sisterhood. she satisfied herself that her own people had no suspicion of the flight, as none of the crew of the belated boat had reached the shore; and she gathered, from the transfer of the maiden to the convent, that father austin was, on his side, resolved not to make known the elopement of garthmund's intended wife. her paramount wish was to recover her niece, but she perceived that she must act warily, and must be ready to deal with the many contingencies which would inevitably arise during the development of her schemes. hilda's position under the immediate protection of the religious communities was a serious obstacle. judith believed that against them her magic arts would be of no avail; she was therefore driven to confine herself to earthly combinations; but she was in no wise daunted by this difficulty, which in point of fact cleared her judgment, and assisted her by inducing her to make the best of the materials at her disposal. the obvious plan for the recovery of the girl was to induce garthmund to attack the nunnery, and drag his bride from it; but to this there were many objections. acknowledgment of hilda's flight would be in itself a confession of failure. she had promised to produce the girl when she was required; to seek the chief's assistance to enable her to fulfil the promise would be a diminution of her prestige, and consequently of her power. again, it was by no means certain that the chief who, it has been said, was no love-sick bridegroom, would consent to undertake the enterprise; nor, if he did undertake it, was his prospect of success unquestionable, for the islanders, though not ready listeners to the christian teaching, would have united to repel a heathen attack on their teachers whom they honoured and respected. judith therefore rejected this expedient, arranging her plan of operations with remarkable ingenuity. her first aim was to promote ill-feeling between the voizins and their neighbours; this part of the campaign was prosecuted with vigour. cattle were lost on either side of the boundary; houses were burnt; old wells ran dry; rumours, mysteriously circulated, spoke of these as no accidental mishaps; suspicions were whispered; instances of retaliation followed. at the time when a dangerous feeling was thus growing up a famine broke out in the voizin country while the islanders were well supplied. the hungry voizin men heard voices in the darkness scoffing at them, laughter and sneers. when their carts were sent to fetch the necessaries of life, lynch-pins were loosened; in more than one case the draught oxen were houghed; the provisions, when received, were mouldy and unwholesome. at last sickness broke out, with stories of poison; then the tension became insupportable. the voizin chief, too proud to go to his neighbours, summoned them to him; the messenger was murdered. this assassination, of which the natives denied all knowledge, was met by prompt reprisals; three perelle fishermen were hung on the spot where the body was found. from this date the outbreak of hostilities was but a question of time. a sternness of purpose ruled in the councils of the voizins which frustrated all attempts at conciliation. a little before christmas a trivial incident kindled the smouldering flames, and the hordes, pouring from the torteval valleys, swept over the districts now known as the parishes of st. saviour's and the câtel; the resistance was tame and ineffectual, sufficient only to give occasion for considerable slaughter and plunder. the invaders, seeing no reason for returning to their famine-stricken fastnesses, settled themselves in the enjoyment of the abundance of the vanquished, who, in their turn, with their accustomed versatility, submitted patiently, and even cheerfully, to a yoke which, after the first onslaught was over, pressed lightly; the voizins, to whom fighting was a pastime, bearing no malice, and passing imperceptibly into a genial mood. judith now prepared to develop the next move, the object of which was to undermine the authority of the monks, and make them vulnerable by isolation. derisive hints were dropped respecting the failure of the new religion to help its votaries in the hour of peril; the victory of the voizins was attributed to the superiority of their gods rather than to deficiency in courage on the part of their foes: this theory, which was not unpalatable to those who had been half-hearted in defence of their homes, was also utilized by the more sober spirits as an argument wherewith to restrain the more ardent from attempting to renew the struggle under similar conditions. the observances of the religion of thor and odin, or rather of that debased form of it which prevailed among this singular people, were celebrated under their more alluring aspects: frequent feasts and dances captivated the laughter-loving islanders, who had been tried somewhat severely by the severity of the _régime_ which austin had endeavoured to impose since he had seen danger in his damaging encounter with judith. after a time it was proclaimed that none would be permitted to join in the revelries who were enemies to the gods who presided at them. this stroke was successful: the majority openly embraced the creed of their conquerors, and showed the usual spirit of perverts in exceeding the latter in their zeal to sweep away all traces of the religion which they had abandoned. the minority who held true to their faith drew together, a grim and resolute band, prepared for a bold defence and, if christ so willed it, for martyrdom. it was not judith's purpose, now that the disruption of the islanders was effected, to leave time for the christians to mature plans for resistance. garthmund, at her instigation, delivered simultaneous attacks on lihou and the vale; he himself superintending the latter operation in order that he might see that the sorceress's instructions, that all in the nunnery were to be made prisoners uninjured, and brought to her closely veiled, were implicitly obeyed. to the surprise of the islanders, however, both assaults, though made with spirit and absolute confidence of success, were completely repulsed; the same result attended a renewed attack, made two days subsequently with fresh and increased forces supported by native levies. garthmund found that in both places he had before him not only resolute troops, but skilled and enterprising commanders. chapter vi. consolation. "mother! list a suppliant child! ave maria! ave maria! stainless styled. foul demons of the earth and air, from this their wonted haunt exiled, shall flee before thy presence fair." _lady of the lake_.--walter scott. jean's recovery after hilda's departure had been slow and lingering; but for the unwearied care of the good fathers and of the recluse, aided by a constitution of no ordinary strength, he must have succumbed to the terrible injuries which he had received. as, however, the days began to lengthen, and signs of spring to appear even on the wild rock where he had taken refuge, his vigour gradually returned. it had been necessary that he should be protected from excitement; consequently, while receiving from the hermit regular reports from the vale, and many a sweet message from his love which made his heart leap with happiness, he knew nothing till the beginning of february of the incursion of the voizins, and the accompanying events. since he had been alone, however, he had dwelt for hours together on the strange story which he had overheard in the tower, the principal figure of which, while his brain had been still confused, had been always mingled in his delirium with the massive form of the hermit. father austin, watching him with anxiety, at length suggested that he should relieve his mind by repeating the tale to the recluse himself. he readily adopted the suggestion. his listener, who had been too delicate to question hilda as to her antecedents, but who had been burning to learn the explanation of the striking resemblance of her features to a face which, whether he waked or slept, ever haunted him, though more often contorted in agony than wreathed in smiles, heard with impatience the history of algar's treachery; but when jean detailed the escape of tita and her charge, and identified the latter with the maiden whom he had rescued, he sprang to his feet at the risk of plunging his patient into a fresh crisis of fever, and exclaimed, "may the choicest gifts of heaven be showered on thee, brave youth! the blessed angels and saints will love thee for this deed!" he reflected a moment, then turned his eyes full on jean's face, "why should i leave it to austin to tell thee what he has long known under the solemn secrecy which binds priest and sinner? thou shalt know it from my own lips: i am haco! drifted hitherward on that lonely voyage, i was released by holy men, now saints above, who healed my wounds and taught me to bury my pride, and to kneel humbly before the cross. i never doubted that i was childless as well as wifeless; had i done so, i should have returned at all risks to claim my own. but she! hilda! 'twas her mother's name! this maiden, towards whom my soul went out in yearning, is my own! yes! my child! if a wild feeling rose when i watched her i crushed it out, for i thought that i had stifled all human passions; but now--" he fell on his knees, and hid his face in his hands, his giant frame convulsed with sobs; but it was evident that he was controlling himself, and when he rose his rugged face was full of humanity: youth seemed to have returned to it; under the disfiguring scars jean could trace without difficulty the fearless, generous features of which judith had spoken with such enthusiasm. haco warmly grasped the sick man's hand, and left the cell. father austin had, it appeared, learnt judith's story from hilda, but this confidence also had been made under the seal of confession. he had been confirmed in his impression of its accuracy by the tale he had already heard from haco, whose strange arrival was still a favourite topic among the monks, though none of those now in the monastery had witnessed it. the three men were now able openly to discuss the subject in its various bearings, but they agreed that the mystery should not be revealed till peace was restored. haco had from the first foreseen the danger to be apprehended from the voizin incursion. the monks were still further surprised to see the being, whose gentleness had amazed them on hilda's arrival, now a leader of men, active, vigorous, inspiring others with the love of life with which he himself seemed to be animated. before the attack came jean was sufficiently recovered to be able to render efficient assistance; he had ably seconded haco in the two encounters, after which he was specially entrusted with the defence of the vale. judith was in no degree daunted by temporary failure: her nature revelled in overcoming opposition; her spirit rose to the occasion. garthmund was inclined to be sulky after his second defeat, and might have abandoned the enterprise had he dared to do so; but fear of the sorceress kept him firm. for a month the system of blockade was tried, varied by occasional assaults which, being made with less spirit than the earlier ones, were easily repulsed. the blockade was not more successful. haco had provided ample stores for the small garrison which he had considered sufficient to protect the promontory of lihou, naturally almost impregnable; and the force defending the vale, camped chiefly on lancresse common, was only nominally blockaded. the sallies, made from time to time, were ordered more with a view of keeping up the martial spirit of the men than with that of providing for wants, for the friendly inhabitants of the eastern side of the island, emboldened by recent proofs that the dreaded voizins were not invincible, ran their boats almost with impunity into the little creeks into which the heavier craft of the enemy could not follow them. judith hardly noticed these details. her attention was fixed upon the key of the position. she knew that a resistance of this description was altogether contrary to the unwarlike character of the natives; she was convinced that they were actuated by some abnormal spirit, and that if the motive power were removed the machine would collapse. she made it her business to ascertain what the spring was that guided them. all her art failed in detecting the presence of haco, perhaps because her engines were powerless when directed against one of her own blood; but she easily ascertained that the warriors in the opposing camp looked to jean as their leader, that his spirit pervaded all, and that his ardour to protect his sacred charge filled him with a wondrous power which astonished even those who from childhood had bent to his unchallenged primacy. having satisfied herself as to the character of the opposing force, her next step was to secure jean's person. this presented no difficulty to her. a scroll was delivered to the young leader by an unknown messenger, who at once disappeared. jean, seeing that the characters were those which, as he believed, austin alone was able to trace, took the scroll to the sister who alone was able to interpret them. what sister theresa read was alarming:--"hasten! i am grievously sick; my strength fails! i must see thee without delay." jean was distressed beyond measure, but hilda, whom he hurried to consult, agreed with him that no time must be lost in obeying the summons; the fact that haco was at lihou convinced them that the father would not have sent for jean if his case had not been one of extreme danger. after a hasty farewell and a promise of speedy return, for his presence with the forces was imperative and he grudged every hour of absence from his beloved, he set out alone in his boat. before an hour had passed he was captured by a flotilla which had been lying in ambuscade behind the grandes rocques, and was a prisoner in the enemy's camp. if judith had been an ordinary woman she would have been content with this result, would have executed the prisoner, and have awaited the submission of his disheartened followers; and she would have failed, defeated by the indomitable courage and resource of haco. but it was not in this clumsy fashion that her genius moulded the materials at her command. she now controlled, as she believed, the mainspring of the resistance, which would probably cease with the death of jean. but her aim went far beyond the mere submission of her antagonists; she wished that the blow should be struck in such a manner as to stamp out the false creed which had held the islanders in thrall, to prove to all sceptics the powers of her own gods and the impotence of those of her opponents, and to commit the recently reconverted islanders so irretrievably that they could not afterwards backslide. she wished also, by making an example that would inspire terror, to establish the undisputed supremacy of her people in the whole island. but, side by side with these political considerations, were the religious influences honestly and steadfastly working in her powerful intellect. when she communed with her gods she thought of no earthly good or ill: she loved these strange conceptions, and fixed her whole soul on conciliating them. it was now her conviction that they were displeased: their displeasure, awful as she believed it to be, did not terrify her, but it vexed her to the inmost heart: she feared that they had not been rightly propitiated, and resolved that the shortcoming must be remedied. all her reflections pointed with unerring force to the same conclusion. she held in her hands the strong frame, the stout heart, the ruling mind. all were concentrated in jean letocq. he, then, must be offered up as a fitting sacrifice. by such an offering the deities could not fail to be appeased, and by the death of this man in this fashion all the natural exigencies of the situation would be satisfied. she never allowed herself to dwell for one moment on the fact that the victim was beloved by hilda. on this point she had armed herself with bars of brass and triple steel. he might have fooled the girl, but at the thought of love her heart was ice. the sorceress communicated her resolution to garthmund. the chieftain exhibited no surprise: he expressed a grim approval of the proposal, which seemed likely to give an excuse for revelry and to bring the campaign to a prompt conclusion, and proceeded to make the requisite arrangements. the 30th of march was the day chosen. the forces investing the two beleaguered positions were ordered to assemble, that on the western side on the low ground between l'erée and lihou, that on the northern under shelter of the woods of the braye du valle, facing the fortifications thrown up by the defenders. at a given signal, the kindling of a beacon on the rocque du guet, the two hosts were to make simultaneously a determined assault. the islanders not engaged in these operations, with the exception of those openly or secretly sympathizing with the christians, poured into vazon forest, none remaining behind but those absolutely incapable of conveying themselves or of being conveyed. by this time the consternation in the enemy's camp was all that the sorceress could desire. jean's capture had been ascertained, and all the particulars respecting his coming fate were known by means of spies. haco shook his head at the proposals of rescue made by spirited youths. "success would be hopeless," he said; "failure would be fatal to those whose lives are precious to us. if he dies we will brace every nerve to avenge him, but we must be patient, and await their onslaught. then will come our turn! then will we spring at their dastard throats! then shall they drink freely of their own gore!" if the man of the sword thought the case hopeless, what could the men of the cloister do? they did all in their power--prayed ceaselessly, fasted, did penance under the guidance of father austin; but nevertheless the fatal morning arrived. hilda knew her lover's danger. when he failed to return, and when haco, arriving from lihou, admitted that he had not been seen at the monastery, her heart sank; she, better than any of those around her, knew the stern, implacable patriotism and fanaticism of judith's nature; she fully realized the savage dispositions of her countrymen, their contempt of human life, and their brutal treatment of captives. she had some conception of their fearful orgies, and she shuddered when her mind touched, not daring to dwell, on jean's possible fate. she had sufficient presence of mind to bear up bravely before haco, who had no suspicion that she had a perception of the terrible truth from which even his rent and seared feelings shrank; nor did she reveal to father austin, during a short visit which he paid her at great risk this inner serpent which was devouring her young heart. sister theresa and her fellows marvelled at her as on the morning of the fatal day she passed between them, her eyes rapt in contemplation, her look serene and calm, though beneath the surface lay a depth of unutterable woe, sinking, receding, chill as the dark, haunted, bosom of an unfathomable mountain lake. she sought her own cell and begged to be left alone. then the full heart burst the bounds imposed by the strong will. she placed before her the little madonna, from which she never parted, and fell on her knees. she prayed till noon, and her prayer continued still; it was not simply a woman's supplication: her whole essence was poured out before the holy mother, who was the object of her special adoration. this girl had never known evil: for nineteen years her mind had rippled on, sparkling with good deeds, little bright thoughts, gentle inspirations sweetly obeyed; then first streamed in the warm current of human love, followed by the rapid thrilling rush of the flow of divine awakening. the little stream had become a torrent; but one in which every element was pure, for its component parts were faith in god, trust in man, the will to act, the power to bear, contentment in joy and resignation in sorrow. above all, she had ever before her the words which austin had told her comprised the sermon of the universe--"thy will be done!" was it possible that, in the days when miracles were yet wrought, such a prayer at such a time from such a saint should not be heard? some three hours had passed after noon when she felt a sweet languor overspread her. a mist crept before her eyes, which quickly passed away and was replaced by a radiance brighter than the sun's rays; her eyes had power however to look aloft, and she gazed with clasped hands and with loving reverence: the holy virgin herself stood before her, holding in her arms the blessed infant; the mother looking down with a smile inexpressibly tender and compassionate, the child stretching forth its dimpled hand and giving its blessing. she sank in rapture, the glory too great for her. as the vision faded she arose, a marvellous strength possessing her. she stepped forth, and found herself in the midst of a crowd gazing, horror-stricken, seawards. "fear nothing," she said with a calm expression that seemed to permeate the whole assembly like an inner voice; "he is saved, and you are saved!" the words came opportunely. chapter vii. annihilation. "prophet-like that lone one stood, with dauntless words and high, that shook the sere leaves from the wood as if a storm pass'd by." _the last man_.--campbell. "so perish the old gods! but out of the sea of time rises a new land of song, fairer than the old." _the seaside and the fireside_.--longfellow. full of evil augury was the morning of this eventful day in vazon forest. there were the same trees, the same glades and streams, as on the well-remembered midsummer day of the preceding year; but nature and man alike were in a different mood. the trees were leafless and churlish, the glades ragged and colourless; the turbid, dusky streams bore but small resemblance to the limpid rivulets of june; the native youths were absent, engaged in military service; the maidens, headed by suzanne falla, had indeed an appearance of mirth, but there was a hollow ring in the boisterous recklessness of their merriment; the old men tramped feebly and aimlessly, for the reverence for age had been transferred to the veterans of the conquerors. the latter also supplied the musicians; and the clanging of drums and cymbals, with the blast of horns, replaced the sylvan melody of the aborigines. still there was every sign of festivity. the proceedings began with dances in which the men, who posed as athletes and warriors, gave representations of deeds of martial prowess. then the girls were allowed to foot their native dances in their own fashion. dances for both sexes followed, in which the native maidens found it difficult to conceal their terror of the rough partners ever ready to become rougher wooers. these preliminaries concluded, the business of the day began. though this wild race sacrificed human beings, they did not treat their victims with the coldblooded cruelty of the druids, who slaughtered them as if they were oxen or sheep; their custom was to burn their captives; and it is not for critics, whose pious forefathers kindled the fires of smithfield, to assert that their practice was wholly barbarous. in the present case a pyre, some twelve feet high, was built at the foot of a huge granite boulder, near the sea-coast: it was constructed of dry wood, and was drenched with combustible materials. jean was bound firmly to a strong hurdle, made of birch stems and withies securely lashed together. judith, garthmund, and the principal elders, placed themselves under the venerable oak; the people stood at a respectful distance. twelve stalwart warriors bore the litter on which the prisoner was stretched, and placed it on stone trestles planted for the purpose in the intervening space. then the priests arrived; twelve old men whose white locks and beards, and snowy dresses, gave them a venerable appearance which was soon belied by their performances. halting when they reached the victim, the priests faced the oak, and chanted a solemn, wailing dirge; this, which might have been a farewell to the spirit whose departure they were preparing to accelerate, was not unimpressive. then one stepped forward whose voice was yet clear and loud; he passed a warm eulogy on the qualities of the captive, whom he described in exaggerated phrases as a sage in council, and a hero in battle, endowing him also with every domestic virtue which seemed in his eyes worthy of enumeration. this discourse was followed by a warlike song in honour of thor and odin, and it was during the course of this hymn that it became clear from their rolling eyes and unsteady gait that the old men were in a state of no ordinary excitement. all night they had been feasting their deities, and the solemnity had involved deep potations; now, as the rapid movements of a dance which accompanied the inspiriting words sent the fumes into their heads, they appeared to be beside themselves. the bystanders, however, attributing their frenzy to religious fervour, and not unaccustomed to such manifestations, looked on unmoved. the music ceased; and the song of triumph gave way to a hideous scene over which it were painful to dwell. the drunken old men, with incredible agility, whirled round the prostrate form of jean. there was no question now of eulogizing his virtues: he was accused, in language which seemed devil-born, of every crime, every infamy, of which the human race is capable; held up to scorn and ignominy, he was cursed and execrated with a shower of blasphemy and obscenity; a by-stander, contemplating his calm, clear face, the lips parted in prayer, gleaming amidst the contorted features of the screaming miscreants, might have believed him to be already passing, unscathed, through the terrors of purgatory. it is impossible at this day to fathom the mystery of this terrible relic of some remote superstition. it may have been that the abhorrence and extinction of evil was roughly typified, or that it was understood that the death of the victim would, as if he were a scapegoat, cleanse the worshippers of the sins with which he was thus loaded. it is idle to grope where all is, and must be, dark; all that can be asserted with any certainty is that the preliminary eulogy, a more modern practice, was intended to enhance the value of the offering which they were about to make to the gods. the warriors now resumed their burden, and a procession was formed towards the pyre, on which the litter-bearers, mounting by an inclined plane, placed the doomed youth. judith ascended the huge boulder, which was some eight feet higher than the pyre at its foot. the chief and people grouped themselves round its base. the priests stood ready to apply the torch when the sorceress gave the signal, and the distant watchman on the guct waited in his turn for the first flash of flame to kindle the beacon which was to set the assailing forces in motion. judith turned to the expectant crowd: her glance was searching, in her eye was an ineffable look of scorn. "down on your knees!" she said, "craven sons, whose sires would blush to own you! you who have steeped your hearts in pride and boastfulness! were your fathers slow to draw the sword and quick to sheathe it? did they cower by their hearths when warm blood was being spilt? did they feast when others fought? would they not have leaped, as the tempest rushes from its caves, to scatter like the sand those who should have dared to bend the knee to false gods, objects of their loathing and derision? runs this noble blood in your stagnant veins? from giants ye have become pigmies!" the majestic contempt with which these words had been delivered had a crushing effect. she continued her harangue for some time in the same strain. every voizin's head was bowed, every form bent and trembling. the sorceress then, slowly turning, faced seaward. her arms assumed the well-known beseeching attitude, the serpent bracelet glittering fiercely in the sun. her voice changed, became softer. "yet they are my people!" she continued, "and the last of our race. ennoble them, great gods! quicken their hearts and spare them!" looking outward with the rapt look of a prophetess in whom, though torn with tempests of fanaticism and of passion, human and superhuman, no thought was mean, no sentiment ignoble, she poured out this her prayer; not for mercy!--her gods knew not this attribute; nor could she understand it; if the craven continued to be a craven she felt he were better dead;--not for peace and contentment!--to these blessings neither she nor they attached value;--but for fearlessness and steadfastness of purpose, and also for courage to die for the truth! there were petitions poured out by this woman that would have honoured the lips of the champion of any creed. the supplication ended, she seemed about to raise her hand to give the anticipated signal when a look of amazement passed over her features; she brushed her hand over her eyes and looked again, then folded her arms and gazed steadily seawards. what she saw might have shattered even her nerves of iron. at the close of her prayer, which had exactly coincided with the moment when hilda stepped from her cell, the bosom of the sea heaved and rose: a wave, ten feet high, glided, stole as it were, so gently did it move, into the forest; but so rapidly, that in one minute every human being except herself and jean was engulphed. they were gone, the high-couraged and the craven, the frenzied priest and the laughing child, with their passions, their hopes, and their fears, without the faintest note of warning of coming danger! judith glanced at jean, almost contemptuously; he, not having seen what had happened, was still momentarily expecting the application of the torch. a second wave crept in, smaller than the former, but overwhelming the pyre. the dazed warrior on the guet reported that after this second wave had passed he saw the tall form still towering on the peak, but that when he looked again the rock, though still above water, was tenantless; a little later the granite mass, together with the tops of the tallest trees, lay under an unruffled surface. when the pyre was submerged the litter, to which jean was attached, floated off and formed a tolerably secure raft. his life was safe for a time; but he would have been exposed to a still more ghastly fate from the swooping sea-birds had he not been able by a supreme effort to wrest one of his arms from its bands. in speechless wonderment he was carried seaward by the slowly receding tide. suddenly his raft was hailed by a well-known voice. friendly hands cut the ropes that bound him, and he was lifted into a boat. the occupant was haco who, attracted to the spot when hurrying to the vale, by the cries of the clustering gulls, had thus again saved his life. the giant pulled vigorously to the point which, now known as the hommet, terminates the northern arm of vazon bay; there he landed the youth, to enable him to stretch his cramped limbs, and to clothe him in such articles as he could spare from his own equipment. a rapid explanation passed between them. haco told him how the force investing lihou had, when apparently waiting for a signal to move, been overwhelmed by a wave which cut off the promontory from l'erée, and had perished to a man. jean could tell of nothing but the sudden cessation of the tumult and the floating of his litter. the minds of both were wandering, burningly anxious as they were to know what had passed at the vale. scaling the hommet, they obtained a sufficient view to satisfy them that lancresse common no longer formed a portion of the mainland; an hour afterwards, entering the grand havre, they saw an unbroken channel between that inlet and st. sampson's: every trace of the invading host had disappeared. jean was soon in hilda's arms; and the two lovers, with haco, spent the remainder of the day in pious thanksgiving to the holy mother by whose special interposition, testified so miraculously to the maiden, the cause of christ had triumphed and the parted had been reunited, when the last gleam of safety seemed to have been extinguished. the next morning father austin arrived. hilda was then made acquainted with her relationship to haco, whose tender attentions during her late troubles had already won her unreserved affection. the news was an inexpressible joy to her, and it was touching to see how she nestled in the deep embrace of her father, whose feelings, so long pent up, now at last found vent. jean absented himself during the day, but on the following morning insisted that his nuptials should no longer be deferred. the same evening, in the little chapel of the nunnery, austin bestowed his blessing on a union which had been sanctified by such special manifestations of divine approval. the readjustment of the shattered organization of the island was imperative. the inhabitants of the eastern side, and those of the vale, had for the most part preserved their lives by their absence from the forest; the christian converts who had aided in the struggle were also safe; with these exceptions the island was practically depopulated. jean was elected chief by acclamation. after giving such pressing directions as immediate exigencies required, he acceded to his wife's ardent wish to obtain intelligence respecting judith, and also to ascertain the fate of tita. the lihou monks had already reported that all communication was broken between the hanois and the shore, but that the tower appeared to be intact. on an april morning haco and the young couple sailed across rocquaine bay, and landed close to the tower, which now stood on a rugged and inhospitable island. the door was opened by tita, who smiled, and prattled, and caressed her young mistress like a lap-dog. she recognised jean with indifference, but a start, followed by a shudder, seized her when she observed haco; her terror, however, seemed to pass away when he spoke a few soothing words to her. it was evident that a shock, or a succession of shocks, had unsettled the poor woman's brain. on the name of judith being mentioned, she pointed fearfully to the upper story. uncertain as to her meaning, jean cautiously ascended the ladder, and ascertained that the sorceress was in truth there. after a consultation it was decided that haco and hilda should seek her presence. as father and daughter entered the apartment, they saw the old woman half-seated, half-lying, on a couch placed close to the window; her face, which was turned seaward, was haggard, the leanness bringing into strong relief the handsome chiselling of her profile; the sternness of her mouth was somewhat relaxed; there was an indication almost of softness in its corners. her high spirit had accepted, not resented, defeat. as her eye fell on her two visitors there was no gleam of defiance, no mark of anger, or even surprise; but, when haco stood fully revealed before her, a flash of triumph and pleasure shot into it, kindling every feature with its glow. "you here, haco!" she cried, "and with her! the gods have relented. you will hold her fast in their worship, and lead her steps to the land of her sires! i die contented." she fell back exhausted. "sister," said the giant, laying his hand softly on her shoulder, "it is too late; when algar slew my loved one the pagan died in me; i am a servant of the god of the christians." hilda awaited fearfully the result of this announcement, but she knew not the greatness of the old woman's soul. it was long ere her voice was heard again. presently, raising herself, she said, "i would it had been otherwise; but i have erred, i have misjudged. i thought that your gods were false; puny creations of a nerveless brain; but they are strong, i own their power! it may be that the great ones of old have wearied of our spiritless race, and abandoned us. so perchance you may be wise to turn to the new-comers!" her voice failed her, but as they knelt by her side her hands wandered over their heads and lingered with a caressing movement among hilda's locks. she seemed to have forgotten jean, whom she doubtless believed to have been lost in the general calamity. suddenly she started up and pointed to a storm-cloud rising rapidly from the western horizon, assuming a succession of fantastic shapes as it passed upwards. "do you not see them?" she cried--"the great, the glorious ones! they bend from their seats; they smile! see their power! their majesty! their locks stream, their swords are half drawn! they sheathe them, they lean forward, they extend their arms! they beckon!--i come, i come!" she stretched out her arms with the old familiar gesture and sank back, having breathed her spirit to the tempest which she loved so well. they buried her on the cliffs of pleinmont, where a cairn long marked her resting-place. tita was taken to the vale; all attempts to restore her from the shock which her nerves had received failed till on one sunny morning hilda's infant was placed on her knees: when the child crowed, and smiled at her, the cloud imperceptibly passed away, never to return. from that time she assumed her regular place in the household. haco abandoned his lihou cell; his rough readiness of resource, unfailing good-humour, and skill in managing men, proved invaluable during the task of the restoration of the broken links of government and society. the labours of father austin and his coadjutors did not relax, but their course lay in smoother waters: if their prospects of martyrdom were diminished they were more than consoled by the knowledge that they possessed among them a veritable saint, to whom the holy virgin had vouchsafed the honour of a personal appearance, and that they had been witnesses of a miraculous interposition, the evidence of which would be indelible as long as the sea should wash the storm-beaten cliffs of their beloved island. this ebook was produced by david widger the battle of the strong [a romance of two kingdoms] by gilbert parker volume 6. chapter xxxix the bell on the top of the cohue royale clattered like the tongue of a scolding fishwife. for it was the fourth of october, and the opening of the assise d'heritage. this particular session of the court was to proceed with unusual spirit and importance, for after the reading of the king's proclamation, the royal court and the states were to present the formal welcome of the island to admiral prince philip d'avranche, duc de bercy; likewise to offer a bounty to all jerseymen enlisting under him. the island was en fete. there had not been such a year of sensations since the battle of jersey. long before chicane--chicane ceased clanging over the vier marchi the body of the court was filled. the governor, the bailly, the jurats, the seigneurs and the dames des fiefs, the avocats with their knowledge of the ancient custom of normandy and the devious inroads made upon it by the customs of jersey, the military, all were in their places; the officers of the navy had arrived, all save one and he was to be the chief figure of this function. with each arrival the people cheered and the trumpets blared. the islanders in the vier marchi turned to the booths for refreshments, or to the printing-machine set up near la pyramide, and bought halfpenny chapsheets telling of recent defeats of the french; though mostly they told in ebullient words of the sea-fight which had made philip d'avranche an admiral, and of his elevation to a sovereign dukedom. the crowds restlessly awaited his coming now. inside the court there was more restlessness still. it was now many minutes beyond the hour fixed. the bailly whispered to the governor, the governor to his aide, and the aide sought the naval officers present; but these could give no explanation of the delay. the comtesse chantavoine was in her place of honour beside the attorney-general--but prince philip and his flag-lieutenant came not. the comtesse chantavoine was the one person outwardly unmoved. what she thought, who could tell? hundreds of eyes scanned her face, yet she seemed unconscious of them, indifferent to them. what would not the bailly have given for her calmness! what would not the greffier have given for her importance! she drew every eye by virtue of something which was more than the name of duchesse de bercy. the face, the bearing, had an unconscious dignity, a living command and composure: the heritage, perhaps, of a race ever more fighters than courtiers, rather desiring good sleep after good warfare than luxurious peace. the silence, the tension grew painful. a whole half hour had the court waited beyond its time. at last, however, cheers arose outside, and all knew that the prince was coming. presently the doors were thrown open, two halberdiers stepped inside, and an officer of the court announced admiral his serene highness prince philip d'avranche, duc de bercy. "oui-gia, think of that!" said a voice from somewhere in the hall. philip heard it, and he frowned, for he recognised dormy jamais's voice. where it came from he knew not, nor did any one; for the daft one was snugly bestowed above a middle doorway in what was half balcony, half cornice. when philip had taken his place beside the comtesse chantavoine, came the formal opening of the cour d'heritage. the comtesse's eyes fixed themselves upon philip. there was that in his manner which puzzled and evaded her clear intuition. some strange circumstance must have delayed him, for she saw that his flag-lieutenant was disturbed, and this she felt sure was not due to delay alone. she was barely conscious that the bailly had been addressing philip, until he had stopped and philip had risen to reply. he had scarcely begun speaking when the doors were suddenly thrown open again, and a woman came forward quickly. the instant she entered philip saw her, and stopped speaking. every one turned. it was guida. in the silence, looking neither to right nor left, she advanced almost to where the greffier sat, and dropping on her knee and looking up to the bailly and the jurats, stretched out her hands and cried: "haro, haro! a l'aide, mon prince, on me fait tort!" if one rose from the dead suddenly to command them to an awed obedience, jerseymen could not be more at the mercy of the apparition than at the call of one who cries in their midst, "haro! haro!"--that ancient relic of the custom of normandy and rollo the dane. to this hour the jerseyman maketh his cry unto rollo, and the royal court--whose right to respond to this cry was confirmed by king john and afterwards by charles--must listen, and every one must heed. that cry of haro makes the workman drop his tools, the woman her knitting, the militiaman his musket, the fisherman his net, the schoolmaster his birch, and the ecrivain his babble, to await the judgment of the royal court. every jurat fixed his eye upon guida as though she had come to claim his life. the bailly's lips opened twice as though to speak, but no words came. the governor sat with hands clinched upon his chairarm. the crowd breathed in gasps of excitement. the comtesse chantavoine looked at philip, looked at guida, and knew that here was the opening of the scroll she had not been able to unfold. now she should understand that something which had made the old duc de bercy with his last breath say, don't be afraid! philip stood moveless, his eyes steady, his face bitter, determined. yet there was in his look, fixed upon guida, some strange mingling of pity and purpose. it was as though two spirits were fighting in his face for mastery. the countess touched him upon the arm, but he took no notice. drawing back in her seat she looked at him and at guida, as one might watch the balances of justice weighing life and death. she could not read this story, but one glance at the faces of the crowd round her made her aware that here was a tale of the past which all knew in little or in much. "haro! haro! a l'aide, mon prince, on me fait tort!" what did she mean, this woman with the exquisite face, alive with power and feeling, indignation and appeal? to what prince did she cry?--for what aid? who trespassed upon her? the bailly now stood up, a frown upon his face. he knew what scandal had said concerning guida and philip. he had never liked guida, for in the first days of his importance she had, for a rudeness upon his part meant as a compliment, thrown his hat--the lieutenant-bailly's hat--into the fauxbie by the vier prison. he thought her intrusive thus to stay these august proceedings of the royal court, by an appeal for he knew not what. "what is the trespass, and who the trespasser?" asked the bailly sternly. guida rose to her feet. "philip d'avranche has trespassed," she said. "what philip d'avranche, mademoiselle?" asked the bailly in a rough, ungenerous tone. "admiral philip d'avranche, known as his serene highness the duc de bercy, has trespassed on me," she answered. she did not look at philip, her eyes were fixed upon the bailly and the jurats. the bailly whispered to one or two jurats. "wherein is the trespass?" asked the bailly sharply. "tell your story." after an instant's painful pause, guida told her tale. "last night at plemont," she said in a voice trembling a little at first but growing stronger as she went on, "i left my child, my guilbert, in his bed, with dormy jamais to watch beside him, while i went to my boat which lies far from my hut. i left dormy jamais with the child because i was afraid--because i had been afraid, these three days past, that philip d'avranche would steal him from me. i was gone but half an hour; it was dark when i returned. i found the door open, i found dormy jamais lying unconscious on the floor, and my child's bed empty. my child was gone. he was stolen from me by philip d'avranche, duc de bercy." "what proof have you that it was the duc de bercy?" asked the bailly. "i have told your honour that dormy jamais was there. he struck dormy jamais to the ground, and rode off with my child." the bailly sniffed. "dormy jamais is a simpleton--an idiot." "then let the prince speak," she answered quickly. she turned and looked philip in the eyes. he did not answer a word. he had not moved since she entered the court-room. he kept his eyes fixed on her, save for one or two swift glances towards the jurats. the crisis of his life had come. he was ready to meet it now: anything would be better than all he had gone through during the past ten days. in mad impulse he had stolen the child, with the wild belief that through it he could reach guida, could bring her to him. for now this woman who despised him, hated him, he desired more than all else in the world. ambition has her own means of punishing. for her gifts of place or fortune she puts some impossible hunger in the soul of the victim which leads him at last to his own destruction. with all the world conquered there is still some mystic island of which she whispers, and to gain this her votary risks all--and loses all. the bailly saw by philip's face that guida had spoken truth. but he whispered with the jurats eagerly, and presently he said with brusque decision: "our law of haro may only apply to trespass upon property. its intent is merely civil." which having said he opened and shut his mouth with gusto, and sat back as though expecting guida to retire. "your law of haro, monsieur le bailly!" guida answered with flashing eyes, her voice ringing out fearlessly. "your law of haro! the law of haro comes from the custom of normandy, which is the law of jersey. you make its intent this, you make it that, but nothing can alter the law, and what has been done in its name for generations. is it so, that if philip d'avranche trespass on my land, or my hearth, i may cry haro, haro! and you will take heed? but when it is blood of my blood, bone of my bone, flesh of my flesh that he has wickedly seized; when it is the head i have pillowed on my breast for four years--the child that has known no father, his mother's only companion in her unearned shame, the shame of an outcast--then is it so that your law of haro may not apply? messieurs, it is the justice of haro that i ask, not your lax usage of it. from this prince philip i appeal to the spirit of prince rollo who made this law. i appeal to the law of jersey which is the custom of normandy. there are precedents enough, as you well know, messieurs. i demand--i demand--my child." the bailly and the jurats were in a hopeless quandary. they glanced furtively at philip. they were half afraid that she was right, and yet were timorous of deciding against the prince. she saw their hesitation. "i call on you to fulfil the law. i have cried haro, haro! and what i have cried men will hear outside this court, outside this isle of jersey; for i appeal against a sovereign duke of europe." the bailly and the jurats were overwhelmed by the situation. guida's brain was a hundred times clearer than theirs. danger, peril to her child, had aroused in her every force of intelligence; she had the daring, the desperation of the lioness fighting for her own. philip himself solved the problem. turning to the bench of jurats, he said quietly: "she is quite right; the law of haro is with her. it must apply." the court was in a greater maze than ever. was he then about to restore to guida her child? after an instant's pause philip continued: "but in this case there was no trespass, for the child--is my own." every eye in the cohue royale fixed itself upon him, then upon guida, then upon her who was known as the duchesse de bercy. the face of the comtesse chantavoine was like snow, white and cold. as the words were spoken a sigh broke from her, and there came to philip's mind that distant day in the council chamber at bercy when for one moment he was upon his trial; but he did not turn and look at her now. it was all pitiable, horrible; but this open avowal, insult as it was to the comtesse chantavoine, could be no worse than the rumours which would surely have reached her one day. so let the game fare on. he had thrown down the glove now, and he could not see the end; he was playing for one thing only--for the woman he had lost, for his own child. if everything went by the board, why, it must go by the board. it all flashed through his brain: to-morrow he must send in his resignation to the admiralty-so much at once. then bercy--come what might, there was work for him to do at bercy. he was a sovereign duke of europe, as guida had said. he would fight for the duchy for his son's sake. standing there he could feel again the warm cheek of the child upon his own, as last night he felt it riding across the island from plemont to the village near mont orgueil. that very morning he had hurried down to a little cottage in the village and seen it lying asleep, well cared for by a peasant woman. he knew that to-morrow the scandal of the thing would belong to the world, but he was not dismayed. he had tossed his fame as an admiral into the gutter, but bercy still was left. all the native force, the stubborn vigour, the obdurate spirit of the soil of jersey of which he was, its arrogant self-will, drove him straight into this last issue. what he had got at so much cost he would keep against all the world. he would-but he stopped short in his thoughts, for there now at the court-room door stood detricand, the chouan chieftain. he drew his hand quickly across his eyes. it seemed so wild, so fantastic, that of all men, detricand should be there. his gaze was so fixed that every one turned to see--every one save guida. guida was not conscious of this new figure in the scene. in her heart was fierce tumult. her hour had come at last, the hour in which she must declare that she was the wife of this man. she had no proofs. no doubt he would deny it now, for he knew how she loathed him. but she must tell her tale. she was about to address the bailly, but, as though a pang of pity shot, through her heart, she turned instead and looked at the comtesse chantavoine. she could find it in her to pause in compassion for this poor lady, more wronged than herself had been. their eyes met. one instant's flash of intelligence between the souls of two women, and guida knew that the look of the comtesse chantavoine had said: "speak for your child." thereupon she spoke. "messieurs, prince philip d'avranche is my husband." every one in the court-room stirred with excitement. some weak-nerved woman with a child at her breast began to cry, and the little one joined its feeble wail to hers. "five years ago," guida continued, "i was married to philip d'avranche by the reverend lorenzo dow in the church of st. michael's--" the bailly interrupted with a grunt. "h'm--lorenzo dow is well out of the way-have done." "may i not then be heard in my own defence?" guida cried in indignation. "for years i have suffered silently slander and shame. now i speak for myself at last, and you will not hear me! i come to this court of justice, and my word is doubted ere i can prove the truth. is it for judges to assail one so? five years ago i was married secretly, in st. michael's church--secretly, because philip d'avranche urged it, pleaded for it. an open marriage, he said, would hinder his promotion. we were wedded, and he left me. war broke out. i remained silent according to my promise to him. then came the time when in the states of bercy he denied that he had a wife. from the hour i knew he had done so i denied him. my child was born in shame and sorrow, i myself was outcast in this island. but my conscience was clear before heaven. i took myself and my child out from among you and went to plemont. i waited, believing that god's justice was surer than man's. at last philip d'avranche--my husband--returned here. he invaded my home, and begged me to come with my child to him as his wife--he who had so evilly wronged me, and wronged another more than me. i refused. then he stole my child from me. you ask for proofs of my marriage. messieurs, i have no proofs. "i know not where lorenzo dow may be found. the register of st. michael's church, as you all know, was stolen. mr. shoreham, who witnessed the marriage, is dead. but you must believe me. there is one witness left, if he will but speak--even the man who married me, the man that for one day called me his wife. i ask him now to tell the truth." she turned towards philip, her clear eyes piercing him through and through. what was going on in his mind neither she nor any in that court might ever know, for in the pause, the comtesse chantavoine rose up, and passing steadily by philip, came to guida. looking her in the eyes with an incredible sorrow, she took her hand, and turned towards philip with infinite scorn. a strange, thrilling silence fell upon all the court. the jurats shifted in their seats with excitement. the bailly, in a hoarse, dry voice, said: "we must have proof. there must be record as well as witness." from near the great doorway came a voice saying: "the record is here," and detricand stepped forward, in his uniform of the army of the vendee. a hushed murmur ran round the room. the jurats whispered to each other. "who are you, monsieur?" said the bailly. "i am detricand, prince of vaufontaine," he replied, "for whom the comtesse chantavoine will vouch," he added in a pained voice, and bowed low to her and to guida. "i am but this hour landed. i came to jersey on this very matter." he did not wait for the bailly to reply, but began to tell of the death of lorenzo dow, and, taking from his pocket the little black journal, opened it and read aloud the record written therein by the dead clergyman. having read it, he passed it on to the greffier, who handed it up to the bailly. another moment's pause ensued. to the most ignorant and casual of the onlookers the strain was great; to those chiefly concerned it was supreme. the bailly and the jurats whispered together. now at last a spirit of justice was roused in them. but the law's technicalities were still to rule. the bailly closed the book, and handed it back to the greffier with the words: "this is not proof though it is evidence." guida felt her heart sink within her. the comtesse chantavoine, who still held her hand, pressed it, though herself cold as ice with sickness of spirit. at that instant, and from heaven knows where--as a bird comes from a bush--a little grey man came quickly among them all, carrying spread open before him a book almost as big as himself. handing it up to the bailly, he said: "here is the proof, monsieur le bailly--here is the whole proof." the bailly leaned over and drew up the book. the jurats crowded near and a dozen heads gathered about the open volume. at last the bailly looked up and addressed the court solemnly. "it is the lost register of st. michael's," he said. "it contains the record of the marriage of lieutenant philip d'avranche and guida landresse de landresse, both of the isle of jersey, by special license of the bishop of winchester." "precisely so, precisely so," said the little grey figure--the chevalier orvillier du champsavoys de beaumanoir. tears ran down his cheeks as he turned towards guida, but he was smiling too. guida's eyes were upon the bailly. "and the child?" she cried with a broken voice--"the child?" "the child goes with its mother," answered the bailly firmly. during one year later chapter xl the day that saw guida's restitution in the cohue royale brought but further trouble to ranulph delagarde. the chevalier had shown him the lost register of st. michael's, and with a heart less heavy, he left the island once more. intending to join detricand in the vendee, he had scarcely landed at st. malo when he was seized by a press-gang and carried aboard a french frigate commissioned to ravage the coasts of british america. he had stubbornly resisted the press, but had been knocked on the head, and there was an end on it. in vain he protested that he was an englishman. they laughed at him. his french was perfect, his accent norman, his was a norman face-evidence enough. if he was not a citizen of france he should be, and he must be. ranulph decided that it was needless to throw away his life. it was better to make a show of submission. so long as he had not to fight british ships, he could afford to wait. time enough then for him to take action. when the chance came he would escape this bondage; meanwhile remembering his four years' service with the artillery at elizabeth castle, he asked to be made a gunner, and his request was granted. the victoire sailed the seas battle-hungry, and presently appeased her appetite among dutch and danish privateers. such excellent work did ranulph against the dutchmen, that richambeau, the captain, gave him a gun for himself, and after they had fought the danes made him a mastergunner. of the largest gun on the victoire ranulph grew so fond that at last he called her ma couzaine. days and weeks passed, until one morning came the cry of "land! land!" and once again ranulph saw british soil--the tall cliffs of the peninsula of gaspe. gaspe--that was the ultima thule to which mattingley and carterette had gone. presently, as the victoire came nearer to the coast, he could see a bay and a great rock in the distance, and, as they bore in now, the rock seemed to stretch out like a vast wall into the gulf. as he stood watching and leaning on ma couzaine, a sailor near him said that the bay and the rock were called perce. perce bay--that was the exact point for which elie mattingley and carterette had sailed with sebastian alixandre. how strange it was! he had bidden carterette good-bye for ever, yet fate had now brought him to the very spot whither she had gone. the rock of perce was a wall, three hundred feet high, and the wall was an island that had once been a long promontory like a battlement, jutting out hundreds of yards into the gulf. at one point it was pierced by an archway. it was almost sheer; its top was flat and level. upon the sides there was no verdure; upon the top centuries had made a green field. the wild geese as they flew northward, myriad flocks of gulls, gannets, cormorants, and all manner of fowl of the sea, had builded upon the summit until it was rich with grass and shrubs. the nations of the air sent their legions here to bivouac, and the discord of a hundred languages might be heard far out to sea, far in upon the land. millions of the races of the air swarmed there; at times the air above was darkened by clouds of them. no fog-bell on a rock-bound coast might warn mariners more ominously than these battalions of adventurers on the perce rock. no human being had ever mounted to this eyrie. generations of fishermen had looked upon the yellowish-red limestone of the perce rock with a valorous eye, but it would seem that not even the tiny clinging hoof of a chamois or wild goat might find a foothold upon the straight sides of it. ranulph was roused out of the spell perce cast over him by seeing the british flag upon a building by the shore of the bay they were now entering. his heart gave a great bound. yes, it was the english flag defiantly flying. and more--there were two old 12 pounders being trained on the french squadron. for the first time in years a low laugh burst from his lips. "o mai grand doux," he said in the jersey patois, "only one man in the world would do that. only elie mattingley!" at that moment, mattingley now issued from a wooden fishing-shed with sebastian alixandre and three others armed with muskets, and passed to the little fort on which flew the british and jersey flags. ranulph heard a guffaw behind. richambeau, the captain, confronted him. "that's a big splutter in a little pot, gunner," said he. he put his telescope to his eye. "the lord protect us," he cried, "they're going to fight my ship!" he laughed again till the tears came. "son of peter, but it is droll that--a farce au diable! they have humour, these fisherfolk, eh, gunner?" "mattingley will fight you just the same," answered ranulph coolly. "oh ho, you know these people, my gunner?" asked richambeau. "all my life," answered ranulph, "and, by your leave, i will tell you how." not waiting for permission, after the manner of his country, he told richambeau of his jersey birth and bringing up, and how he was the victim of the pressgang. "very good," said richambeau. "you jersey folk were once frenchmen, and now that you're french again, you shall do something for the flag. you see that 12-pounder yonder to the right? very well, dismount it. then we'll send in a flag of truce, and parley with this mattingley, for his jests are worth attention and politeness. there's a fellow at the gun-no, he has gone. dismount the right-hand gun at one shot. ready now. get a good range." the whole matter went through ranulph's mind as the captain spoke. if he refused to fire, he would be strung up to the yardarm; if he fired and missed, perhaps other gunners would fire, and once started they might raze the fishing-post. if he dismounted the gun, the matter would probably remain only a jest, for such as yet richambeau regarded it. ranulph ordered the tackle and breechings cast away, had off the apron, pricked a cartridge, primed, bruised the priming, and covered the vent. then he took his range steadily, quietly. there was a brisk wind blowing from the south--he must allow for that; but the wind was stopped somewhat in its course by the perch rock--he must allow for that. all was ready. suddenly a girl came running round the corner of the building. it was carterette. she was making for the right-hand gun. ranulph started, the hand that held the match trembled. "fire, you fool, or you'll kill the girl!" cried richambeau. ranulph laid a hand on himself as it were. every nerve in his body tingled, his legs trembled, but his eye was steady. he took the sight once more coolly, then blew on the match. now the girl was within thirty feet of the gun. he quickly blew on the match again, and fired. when the smoke cleared away he saw that the gun was dismounted, and not ten feet from it stood carterette looking at it dazedly. he heard a laugh behind him. there was richambeau walking away, telescope under arm, even as the other 12-pounder on shore replied impudently to the gun he had fired. "a good aim," he heard richambeau say, jerking a finger backward towards him. was it then? said ranulph to himself; was it indeed? ba su, it was the last shot he would ever fire against aught english, here or elsewhere. presently he saw a boat drawing away with the flag of truce in the hands of a sous-lieutenant. his mind was made up; he would escape to-night. his place was there beside his fellow-countrymen. he motioned away the men of the gun. he would load ma couzaine himself for the last time. as he sponged the gun he made his plans. swish-swash the sponge-staff ran in and out--he would try to steal away at dog-watch. he struck the sponge smartly on ma couzaine's muzzle, cleansing it--he would have to slide into the water like a rat and swim very softly to the shore. he reached for a fresh cartridge, and thrust it into the throat of the gun, and as the seam was laid downwards he said to himself that he could swim under water, if discovered as he left the victoire. as he unstopped the touch-hole and tried with the priming-wire whether the cartridge was home, he was stunned by a fresh thought. richambeau would send a squad of men to search for him, and if he was not found they would probably raze the post, or take its people prisoners. as he put the apron carefully on ma couzaine, he determined that he could not take refuge with the mattingleys. neither would it do to make for the woods of the interior, for still richambeau might revenge himself on the fishing-post. what was to be done? he turned his eyes helplessly on perce rock. as he looked, a new idea came to him. if only he could get to the top of that massive wall, not a hundred fleets could dislodge him. one musket could defeat the forlorn hope of any army. besides, if he took refuge on the rock, there could be no grudge against perce village or the mattingleys, and richambeau would not injure them. he eyed the wall closely. the blazing sunshine showed it up in a hard light, and he studied every square yard of it with a telescope. at one point the wall was not quite perpendicular. there were also narrow ledges, lumps of stone, natural steps and little pinnacles which the fingers could grip and where man might rest. yes, he would try it. it was the last quarter of the moon, and the neaptide was running low when he let himself softly down into the water from the victoire. the blanket tied on his head held food kept from his rations, with stone and flint and other things. he was not seen, and he dropped away quietly astern, getting clear of the victoire while the moon was partially obscured. now it was a question when his desertion would be discovered. all he asked was two clear hours. by that time the deed would be done, if he could climb perce rock at all. he touched bottom. he was on perce sands. the blanket on his head was scarcely wetted. he wrung the water out of his clothes, and ran softly up the shore. suddenly he was met by a cry of qui va la! and he stopped short at the point of elie mattingley's bayonet. "hush!" said ranulph, and gave his name. mattingley nearly dropped his musket in surprise. he soon knew the tale of ranulph's misfortunes, but he had not yet been told of his present plans when there came a quick footstep, and carterette was at her father's side. unlike mattingley, she did drop her musket at the sight of ranulph. her lips opened, but at first she could not speak--this was more than she had ever dared hope for, since those dark days in jersey. ranulph here! she pressed her hands to her heart to stop its throbbing. presently she was trembling with excitement at the story of how ranulph had been pressed at st. malo, and, all that came after until this very day. "go along with carterette," said mattingley. "alixandre is at the house; he'll help you away into the woods." as ranulph hurried away with carterette, he told her his design. suddenly she stopped short, "ranulph delagarde," she said vehemently, "you can't climb perch rock. no one has ever done it, and you must not try. oh, i know you are a great man, but you mustn't think you can do this. you will be safe where we shall hide you. you shall not climb the rock-ah no, ba su!" he pointed towards the post. "they wouldn't leave a stick standing there if you hid me. no, i'm going to the top of the rock." "man doux terrible!" she said in sheer bewilderment, and then was suddenly inspired. at last her time had come. "pardingue," she said, clutching his arm, "if you go to the top of perch rock, so will i!" in spite of his anxiety he almost laughed. "but see--but see," he said, and his voice dropped; "you couldn't stay up there with me all alone, garcon carterette. and richambeau would be firing on you too!" she was very angry, but she made no reply, and he continued quickly: "i'll go straight to the rock now. when they miss me there'll be a pot boiling, you may believe. if i get up," he added, "i'll let a string down for a rope you must get for me. once on top they can't hurt me.... eh ben, a bi'tot, gargon carterette!" "o my good! o my good!" said the girl with a sudden change of mood. "to think you have come like this, and perhaps--" but she dashed the tears from her eyes, and bade him go on. the tide was well out, the moon shining brightly. ranulph reached the point where, if the rock was to be scaled at all, the ascent must be made. for a distance there was shelving where foothold might be had by a fearless man with a steady head and sure balance. after that came about a hundred feet where he would have to draw himself up by juttings and crevices hand over hand, where was no natural pathway. woe be to him if head grew dizzy, foot slipped, or strength gave out; he would be broken to pieces on the hard sand below. that second stage once passed, the ascent thence to the top would be easier; for though nearly as steep, it had more ledges, and offered fair vantage to a man with a foot like a mountain goat. ranulph had been aloft all weathers in his time, and his toes were as strong as another man's foot, and surer. he started. the toes caught in crevices, held on to ledges, glued themselves on to smooth surfaces; the knees clung like a rough-rider's to a saddle; the big hands, when once they got a purchase, fastened like an air-cup. slowly, slowly up, foot by foot, yard by yard, until one-third of the distance was climbed. the suspense and strain were immeasurable. but he struggled on and on, and at last reached a sort of flying pinnacle of rock, like a hook for the shields of the gods. here he ventured to look below, expecting to see carterette, but there was only the white sand, and no sound save the long wash of the gulf. he drew a horn of arrack from his pocket and drank. he had two hundred feet more to climb, and the next hundred would be the great ordeal. he started again. this was travail indeed. his rough fingers, his toes, hard as horn almost, began bleeding. once or twice he swung quite clear of the wall, hanging by his fingers to catch a surer foothold to right or left, and just getting it sometimes by an inch or less. the tension was terrible. his head seemed to swell and fill with blood: on the top it throbbed till it was ready to burst. his neck was aching horribly with constant looking up, the skin of his knees was gone, his ankles bruised. but he must keep on till he got to the top, or until he fell. he was fighting on now in a kind of dream, quite apart from all usual feelings of this world. the earth itself seemed far away, and he was toiling among vastnesses, himself a giant with colossal frame and huge, sprawling limbs. it was like a gruesome vision of the night, when the body is an elusive, stupendous mass that falls into space after a confused struggle with immensities. it was all mechanical, vague, almost numb, this effort to overcome a mountain. yet it was precise and hugely expert too; for though there was a strange mist on the brain, the body felt its way with a singular certainty, as might some molluscan dweller of the sea, sensitive like a plant, intuitive like an animal. yet at times it seemed that this vast body overcoming the mountain must let go its hold and slide away into the darkness of the depths. now there was a strange convulsive shiver in every nerve--god have mercy, the time was come! . . . no, not yet. at the very instant when it seemed the panting flesh and blood would be shaken off by the granite force repelling it, the fingers, like long antennae, touched horns of rock jutting out from ledges on the third escarpment of the wall. here was the last point of the worst stage of the journey. slowly, heavily, the body drew up to the shelf of limestone, and crouched in an inert bundle. there it lay for a long time. while the long minutes went by, a voice kept calling up from below; calling, calling, at first eagerly, then anxiously, then with terror. by and by the bundle of life stirred, took shape, raised itself, and was changed into a man again, a thinking, conscious being, who now understood the meaning of this sound coming up from the earth below--or was it the sea? a human voice had at last pierced the awful exhaustion of the deadly labour, the peril and strife, which had numbed the brain while the body, in its instinct for existence, still clung to the rocky ledges. it had called the man back to earth--he was no longer a great animal, and the rock a monster with skin and scales of stone. "ranulph! maitre ranulph! ah, ranulph!" called the voice. now he knew, and he answered down: "all right, all right, garche carterette!" "are you at the top?" "no, but the rest is easy." "hurry, hurry, ranulph. if they should come before you reach the top!" "i'll soon be there." "are you hurt, ranulph?" "no, but my fingers are in rags. i am going now. a bi'tot, carterette!" "ranulph!" "'sh, 'sh, do not speak. i am starting." there was silence for what seemed hours to the girl below. foot by foot the man climbed on, no less cautious because the ascent was easier, for he was now weaker. but he was on the monster's neck now, and soon he should set his heel on it: he was not to be shaken off. at last the victorious moment came. over a jutting ledge he drew himself up by sheer strength and the rubber-like grip of his lacerated fingers, and now he lay flat and breathless upon the ground. how soft and cool it was! this was long sweet grass touching his face, making a couch like down for the battered, wearied body. surely such travail had been more than mortal. and what was this vast fluttering over his head, this million-voiced discord round him, like the buffetings and cries of spirits welcoming another to their torment? he raised his head and laughed in triumph. these were the cormorants, gulls, and gannets on the perch rock. legions of birds circled over him with cries so shrill that at first he did not hear carterette's voice calling up to him. at last, however, remembering, he leaned over the cliff and saw her standing in the moonlight far below. her voice came up to him indistinctly because of the clatter of the birds. "maitre ranulph! ranulph!" she could not see him, for this part of the rock was in shadow. "ah bah, all right!" he said, and taking hold of one end of the twine he had brought, he let the roll fall. it dropped almost at carterette's feet. she tied to the end of it three loose ropes she had brought from the post. he drew them up quickly, tied them together firmly, and let the great coil down. ranulph's bundle, a tent and many things carterette had brought were drawn up. "ranulph! ranulph!" came carterette's voice again. "garcon carterette!" "you must help sebastian alixandre up," she said. "sebastian alixandre--is he there? why does he want to come?" "that is no matter," she called softly. "he is coming. he has the rope round his waist. pull away!" it was better, ranulph thought to himself, that he should be on perch rock alone, but the terrible strain had bewildered him, and he could make no protest now. "don't start yet," he called down; "i'll pull when all's ready." he fell back from the edge to a place in the grass where, tying the rope round his body, and seating himself, he could brace his feet against a ledge of rock. then he pulled on the rope. it was round carterette's waist! carterette had told her falsehood without shame, for she was of those to whom the end is more than the means. she began climbing, and ranulph pulled steadily. twice he felt the rope suddenly jerk when she lost her footing, but it came in evenly still, and he used a nose of rock as a sort of winch. the climber was nearly two-thirds of the way up when a cannon-shot boomed out over the water, frightening again the vast covey of birds which shrieked and honked till the air was a maelstrom of cries. then came another cannon-shot. ranulph's desertion was discovered. the fight was begun between a single jersey shipwright and a french war-ship. his strength, however, could not last much longer. every muscle of his body had been strained and tortured, and even this lighter task tried him beyond endurance. his legs stiffened against the ledge of rock, the tension numbed his arms. he wondered how near alixandre was to the top. suddenly there was a pause, then a heavy jerk. love of god--the rope was shooting through his fingers, his legs were giving way! he gathered himself together, and then with teeth, hands, and body rigid with enormous effort, he pulled and pulled. now he could not see. a mist swam before his eyes. everything grew black, but he pulled on and on. he never knew how the climber reached the top. but when the mist cleared away from his eyes, carterette was bending over him, putting rum to his lips. "carterette-garcon carterette!" he murmured, amazed. then as the truth burst upon him he shook his head in a troubled sort of way. "what a cat i was!" said carterette. "what a wild cat i was to make you haul me up! it was bad for me with the rope round me, it must have been awful for you, my poor esmanus--poor scarecrow ranulph." scarecrow indeed he looked. his clothes were nearly gone, his hair was tossed and matted, his eyes bloodshot, his big hands like pieces of raw meat, his feet covered with blood. "my poor scarecrow!" she repeated, and she tenderly wiped the blood from his face where his hands had touched it. meanwhile bugle-calls and cries of command came up to them, and in the first light of morning they could see french officers and sailors, mattingley, alixandre, and others, hurrying to and fro. when day came clear and bright, it was known that carterette as well as ranulph had vanished. mattingley shook his head stoically, but richambeau on the victoire was as keen to hunt down one jersey-englishman as he had ever been to attack an english fleet. more so, perhaps. meanwhile the birds kept up a wild turmoil and shrieking. never before had any one heard them so clamorous. more than once mattingley had looked at perch rock curiously, but whenever the thought of it as a refuge came to him, he put it away. no, it was impossible. yet, what was that? mattingley's heart thumped. there were two people on the lofty island wall--a man and a woman. he caught' the arm of a french officer near him. "look, look!" he said. the officer raised his glass. "it's the gunner," he cried and handed the glass to the old man. "it's carterette," said mattingley in a hoarse voice. "but it's not possible. it's not possible," he added helplessly. "nobody was ever there. my god, look at it--look at it!" it was a picture indeed. a man and a woman were outlined against the clear air, putting up a tent as calmly as though on a lawn, thousands of birds wheeling over their heads, with querulous cries. a few moments later, elie mattingley was being rowed swiftly to the victoire, where richambeau was swearing viciously as he looked through his telescope. he also had recognised the gunner. he was prepared to wipe out the fishing-post if mattingley did not produce ranulph--well, "here was ranulph duly produced and insultingly setting up a tent on this sheer rock, with some snippet of the devil," said richambeau, and defying a great french war-ship. he would set his gunners to work. if he only had as good a marksman as ranulph himself, the deserter should drop at the first shot "death and the devil take his impudent face!" he was just about to give the order when mattingley was brought to him. the old man's story amazed him beyond measure. "it is no man, then!" said richambeau, when mattingley had done. "he must be a damned fly to do it. and the girl--sacre moi! he drew her up after him. i'll have him down out of that though, or throw up my flag," he added, and turning fiercely, gave his orders. for hours the victoire bombarded the lonely rock from the north. the white tent was carried away, but the cannon-balls flew over or merely battered the solid rock, the shells were thrown beyond, and no harm was done. but now and again the figure of ranulph appeared, and a half-dozen times he took aim with his musket at the french soldiers on the shore. twice his shots took effect; one man was wounded, and one killed. then whole companies of marines returned a musketry fire at him, to no purpose. at his ease he hid himself in the long grass at the edge of the cliff, and picked off two more men. here was a ridiculous thing: one man and a slip of a girl fighting and defying a battle-ship. the smoke of battle covered miles of the great gulf. even the seabirds shrieked in ridicule. this went on for three days at intervals. with a fine chagrin richambeau and his men saw a bright camp-fire lighted on the rock, and knew that ranulph and the girl were cooking their meals in peace. a flag-staff too was set up, and a red cloth waved defiantly in the breeze. at last richambeau, who had watched the whole business from the deck of the victoire, burst out laughing, and sent for elie mattingley. "come, i've had enough," said richambeau. "there never was a wilder jest, and i'll not spoil the joke. he has us on his toasting-fork. he shall have the honour of a flag of truce." and so it was that the french battle-ship sent a flag of truce to the foot of perch rock, and a french officer, calling up, gave his captain's word of honour that ranulph should suffer nothing at the hands of a court-martial, and that he should be treated as an english prisoner of war, not as a french deserter. there was no court-martial. after ranulph, at richambeau's command, had told the tale of the ascent, the frenchman said: "no one but an englishman could be fool enough to try such a thing, and none but a fool could have had the luck to succeed. but even a fool can get a woman to follow him, and so this flyaway followed you, and--" carterette made for richambeau as though to scratch his eyes out, but ranulph held her back. "--and you are condemned, gunner," continued richambeau dryly, "to marry the said maid before sundown, or be carried out to sea a prisoner of war." so saying, he laughed, and bade them begone to the wedding. ranulph left richambeau's ship bewildered and perturbed. for hours he paced the shore, and at last his thoughts began to clear. the new life he had led during the last few months had brought many revelations. he had come to realise that there are several sorts of happiness, but that all may be divided into two kinds: the happiness of doing good to ourselves, and that of doing good to others. it opened out clearly to him now as he thought of carterette in the light of richambeau's coarse jest. for years he had known in a sort of way that carterette preferred him to any other man. he knew now that she had remained single because of him. for him her impatience had been patience, her fiery heart had spilled itself in tenderness for his misfortunes. she who had lightly tossed lovers aside, her coquetry appeased, had to himself shown sincerity without coquetry, loyalty without selfishness. he knew well that she had been his champion in dark days, that he had received far more from her than he had ever given--even of friendship. in his own absorbing love for guida landresse, during long years he had been unconsciously blind to a devotion which had lived on without hope, without repining, with untiring cheerfulness. in those three days spent on the top of the perch rock how blithe garcon carterette had been! danger had seemed nothing to her. she had the temper of a man in her real enjoyment of the desperate chances of life. he had never seen her so buoyant; her animal spirits had never leapt so high. and yet, despite the boldness which had sent her to the top of perch rock with him, there had been in her whole demeanour a frank modesty free from self-consciousness. she could think for herself, she was sure of herself, and she would go to the ends of the earth for him. surely he had not earned such friendship, such affection. he recalled how, the night before, as he sat by their little camp-fire, she had come and touched him on the shoulder, and, looking down at him, said: "i feel as if i was beginning my life all over again, don't you, maitre ranulph?" her black eyes had been fixed on his, and the fire in them was as bright and full of health and truth as the fire at his feet. and he had answered her: "i think i feel that too, garcon carterette." to which she had replied: "it isn't hard to forget here--not so very hard, is it?" she did not mean guida, nor what he had felt for guida, but rather the misery of the past. he had nodded his head in reply, but had not spoken; and she, with a quick: "a bi'tot," had taken her blanket and gone to that portion of the rock set apart for her own. then he had sat by the fire thinking through the long hours of night until the sun rose. that day richambeau had sent his flag of truce, and the end of their stay on perch rock was come. yes, he would marry carterette. yet he was not disloyal, even in memory. what had belonged to guida belonged to her for ever, belonged to a past life with which henceforth he should have naught to do. what had sprung up in his heart for carterette belonged to the new life. in this new land there was work to do--what might he not accomplish here? he realised that within one life a man may still live several lives, each loyal and honest after its kind. a fate stronger than himself had brought him here; and here he would stay with fate. it had brought him to carterette, and who could tell what good and contentment might not yet come to him, and how much to her! that evening he went to carterette and asked her to be his wife. she turned pale, and, looking up into his eyes with a kind of fear, she said brokenly: "it's not because you feel you must? it's not because you know i love you, ranulph--is it? it's not for that alone?" "it is because i want you, garcon carterette," he answered tenderly, "because life will be nothing without you." "i am so happy--par made, i am so happy!" she answered, and she hid her face on his breast. chapter xli detricand, prince of vaufontaine, was no longer in the vendee. the whole of brittany was in the hands of the victorious hoche, the peasants were disbanded, and his work for a time at least was done. on the same day of that momentous scene in the cohue royale when guida was vindicated, detricand had carried to granville the comtesse chantavoine, who presently was passed over to the loving care of her kinsman general grandjon-larisse. this done, he proceeded to england. from london he communicated with grandjon-larisse, who applied himself to secure from the directory leave for the chouan chieftain to return to france, with amnesty for his past "rebellion." this was got at last through the influence of young bonaparte himself. detricand was free now to proceed against philip. he straightway devoted himself to a thing conceived on the day that guida was restored to her rightful status as a wife. his purpose now was to wrest from philip the duchy of bercy. philip was heir by adoption only, and the inheritance had been secured at the last by help of a lie--surely his was a righteous cause! his motives had not their origin in hatred of philip alone, nor in desire for honours and estates for himself, nor in racial antagonism, for had he not been allied with england in this war against the government? he hated philip the man, but he hated still more philip the usurper who had brought shame to the escutcheon of bercy. there was also at work another and deeper design to be shown in good time. philip had retired from the english navy, and gone back to his duchy of bercy. here he threw himself into the struggle with the austrians against the french. received with enthusiasm by the people, who as yet knew little or nothing of the doings in the cohue royale, he now took over command of the army and proved himself almost as able in the field as he had been at sea. of these things detricand knew, and knew also that the lines were closing in round the duchy; that one day soon bonaparte would send a force which should strangle the little army and its austrian allies. the game then would be another step nearer the end. free to move at will, he visited the courts of prussia, russia, spain, italy, and austria, and laid before them his claims to the duchy, urging an insistence on its neutrality, and a trial of his cause against philip. ceaselessly, adroitly, with persistence and power, he toiled towards his end, the way made easier by tales told of his prowess in the vendee. he had offers without number to take service in foreign armies, but he was not to be tempted. gossip of the courts said that there was some strange romance behind this tireless pursuit of an inheritance, but he paid no heed. if at last there crept over europe wonderful tales of detricand's past life in jersey, of the real duchesse de bercy, and of the new prince of vaufontaine, detricand did not, or feigned not to, hear them; and the comtesse chantavoine had disappeared from public knowledge. the few who guessed his romance were puzzled to understand his cause: for if he dispossessed philip, guida must also be dispossessed. this, certainly, was not lover-like or friendly. but detricand was not at all puzzled; his mind and purpose were clear. guida should come to no injury through him--guida who, as they left the cohue royale that day of days, had turned on him a look of heavenly trust and gratitude; who, in the midst of her own great happenings, found time to tell him by a word how well she knew he had kept his promise to her, even beyond belief. justice for her was now the supreme and immediate object of his life. there were others ready also to care for france, to fight for her, to die for her, to struggle towards the hour when the king should come to his own; but there was only one man in the world who could achieve guida's full justification, and that was himself, detricand of vaufontaine. he was glad to turn to the chevalier's letters from jersey. it was from the chevalier's lips he had learned the whole course of guida's life during the four years of his absence from the island. it was the chevalier who drew for him pictures of guida in her new home, none other than the house of elie mattingley, which the royal court having confiscated now handed over to her as an act of homage. the little world of jersey no longer pointed the finger of scorn at guida landresse de landresse, but bent the knee to princess guida d'avranche. detricand wrote many letters to the chevalier, and they with their cheerful and humorous allusions were read aloud to guida--all save one concerning philip. writing of himself to the chevalier on one occasion, he laid bare with a merciless honesty his nature and his career. concerning neither had he any illusions. i do not mistake myself, chevalier [he wrote], nor these late doings of mine. what credit shall i take to myself for coming to place and some little fame? everything has been with me: the chance of inheritance, the glory of a cause as hopeless as splendid, and more splendid because hopeless; and the luck of him who loads the dice- for all my old comrades, the better men, are dead, and i, the least of them all, remain, having even outlived the cause. what praise shall i take for this? none--from all decent fellows of the earth, none at all. it is merely laughable that i should be left, the monument of a sacred loyalty greater than the world has ever known. i have no claims--but let me draw the picture, dear chevalier. here was a discredited, dissolute fellow whose life was worth a pin to nobody. tired of the husks and the swine, and all his follies grown stale by over-use, he takes the advice of a good gentleman, and joins the standard of work and sacrifice. what greater luxury shall man ask? if this be not running the full scale of life's enjoyment, pray you what is? the world loves contrasts. the deep-dyed sinner raising the standard of piety is picturesque. if, charmed by his own new virtues, he is constant in his enthusiasm, behold a st. augustine! everything is with the returned prodigal--the more so if he be of the notorious vaufontaines, who were ever saints turned sinners, or sinners turned saints. tell me, my good friend, where is room for pride in me? i am getting far more out of life than i deserve; it is not well that you and others should think better of me than i do of myself. i do not pretend that i dislike it, it is as balm to me. but it would seem that the world is monstrously unjust. one day when i'm grown old--i cannot imagine what else fate has spared me for--i shall write the diary of a sinner, the whole truth. i shall tell how when my peasant fighters were kneeling round me praying for success, even thanking god for me, i was smiling in my glove--in scorn of myself, not of them, chevalier, no,--no, not of them! the peasant's is the true greatness. everything is with the aristocrat; he has to kick the great chances from his path; but the peasant must go hunting them in peril. hardly snatching sustenance from fate, the peasant fights into greatness; the aristocrat may only win to it by rejecting fate's luxuries. the peasant never escapes the austere teaching of hard experience, the aristocrat the languor of good fortune. there is the peasant and there am i. voila! enough of detricand of vaufontaine. . . . the princess guida and the child, are they-so the letter ran, and the chevalier read it aloud to guida up to the point where her name was writ. afterwards guida would sit and think of what detricand had said, and of the honesty of nature that never allowed him to deceive himself. it pleased her also to think she had in some small way helped a man to the rehabilitation of his life. he had said that she had helped him, and she believed him; he had proved the soundness of his aims and ambitions; his career was in the world's mouth. the one letter the chevalier did not read to guida referred to philip. in it detricand begged the chevalier to hold himself in readiness to proceed at a day's notice to paris. so it was that when, after months of waiting, the chevalier suddenly left st. heliers to join detricand, guida did not know the object of his journey. all she knew was that he had leave from the directory to visit paris. imagining this to mean some good fortune for him, with a light heart she sent him off in charge of jean touzel, who took him to st. malo in the hardi biaou, and saw him safely into the hands of an escort from detricand. chapter xlii three days later there was opened in one of the chambers of the emperor's palace at vienna a congress of four nations--prussia, russia, austria, and sardinia. detricand's labours had achieved this result at last. grandjon-larisse, his old enemy in battle, now his personal friend and colleague in this business, had influenced napoleon, and the directory through him, to respect the neutrality of the duchy of bercy, for which the four nations of this congress declared. philip himself little knew whose hand had secured the neutrality until summoned to appear at the congress, to defend his rights to the title and the duchy against those of detricand prince of vaufontaine. had he known that detricand was behind it all he would have fought on to the last gasp of power and died on the battle-field. he realised now that such a fate was not for him-that he must fight, not on the field of battle like a prince, but in a court of nations like a doubtful claimant of sovereign honours. his whole story had become known in the duchy, and though it begot no feeling against him in war-time, now that bercy was in a neutral zone of peace there was much talk of the wrongs of guida and the countess chantavoine. he became moody and saturnine, and saw few of his subjects save the old governor-general and his whilom enemy, now his friend, count carignan damour. that at last he should choose to accompany him to vienna the man who had been his foe during the lifetime of the old duke, seemed incomprehensible. yet, to all appearance, damour was now philip's zealous adherent. he came frankly repenting his old enmity, and though philip did not quite believe him, some perverse temper, some obliquity of vision which overtakes the ablest minds at times, made him almost eagerly accept his new partisan. one thing philip knew: damour had no love for detricand, who indeed had lately sent him word that for his work in sending fouche's men to attempt his capture in bercy, he would have him shot, if the court of nations upheld his rights to the duchy. damour was able, even if damour was not honest. damour, the able, the implacable and malignant, should accompany him to vienna. the opening ceremony of the congress was simple, but it was made notable by the presence of the emperor of austria, who addressed a few words of welcome to the envoys, to philip, and, very pointedly, to the representative of the french nation, the aged duc de mauban, who, while taking no active part in the congress, was present by request of the directory. the duke's long residence in vienna and freedom from share in the civil war in france had been factors in the choice of him when the name was submitted to the directory by general grandjon-larisse, upon whom in turn it had been urged by detricand. the duc de mauban was the most marked figure of the court, the emperor not excepted. clean shaven, with snowy linen and lace, his own natural hair, silver white, tied in a queue behind, he had large eloquent wondering eyes that seemed always looking, looking beyond the thing he saw. at first sight of him at his court, the emperor had said: "the stars have frightened him." no fanciful supposition, for the duc de mauban was as well known an astronomer as student of history and philanthropist. when the emperor mentioned de mauban's name philip wondered where he had heard it before. something in the sound of it was associated with his past, he knew not how. he had a curious feeling too that those deliberate, searching dark eyes saw the end of this fight, this battle of the strong. the face fascinated him, though it awed him. he admired it, even as he detested the ardent strength of detricand's face, where the wrinkles of dissipation had given way to the bronzed carven look of the war-beaten soldier. it was fair battle between these two, and there was enough hatred in the heart of each to make the fight deadly. he knew--and he had known since that day, years ago, in the place du vier prison--that detricand loved the girl whom he himself had married and dishonoured. he felt also that detricand was making this claim to the duchy more out of vengeance than from desire to secure the title for himself. he read the whole deep scheme: how detricand had laid his mine at every court in europe to bring him to this pass. for hours philip's witnesses were examined, among them the officers of his duchy and count carignan damour. the physician of the old duke of bercy was examined, and the evidence was with philip. the testimony of dalbarade, the french ex-minister of marine, was read and considered. philip's story up to the point of the formal signature by the old duke was straightforward and clear. so far the court was in his favour. detricand, as natural heir of the duchy, combated each step in the proceedings from the stand-point of legality, of the duke's fatuity concerning philip, and his personal hatred of the house of vaufontaine. on the third day, when the congress would give its decision, detricand brought the chevalier to the palace. at the opening of the sitting he requested that damour be examined again. the count was asked what question had been put to philip immediately before the deeds of inheritance were signed. it was useless for damour to evade the point, for there were other officers of the duchy present who could have told the truth. yet this truth, of itself, need not ruin philip. it was no phenomenon for a prince to have one wife unknown, and, coming to the throne, to take to himself another more exalted. detricand was hoping that the nice legal sense of mine and thine should be suddenly weighted in his favour by a prepared tour de force. the sympathies of the congress were largely with himself, for he was of the order of the nobility, and philip's descent must be traced through centuries of yeoman blood; yet there was the deliberate adoption by the duke to face, with the formal assent of the states of bercy, but little lessened in value by the fact that the french government had sent its emissaries to bercy to protest against it. the court had come to a point where decision upon the exact legal merits of the case was difficult. after damour had testified to the question the duke asked philip when signing the deeds at bercy, detricand begged leave to introduce another witness, and brought in the chevalier. now he made his great appeal. simply, powerfully, he told the story of philip's secret marriage with guida, and of all that came after, up to the scene in the cohue royale when the marriage was proved and the child given back to guida; when the countess chantavoine, turning from philip, acknowledged to guida the justice of her claim. he drove home the truth with bare unvarnished power--the wrong to guida, the wrong to the countess, the wrong to the dukedom of bercy, to that honour which should belong to those in high estate. then at the last he told them who guida was: no peasant girl, but the granddaughter of the sieur larchant de mauprat of de mauprats of chambery: the granddaughter of an exile indeed, but of the noblest blood of france. the old duc de mauban fixed his look on him intently, and as the story proceeded his hand grasped the table before him in strong emotion. when at last detricand turned to the chevalier and asked him to bear witness to the truth of what he had said, the duke, in agitation, whispered to the president. all that detricand had said moved the court powerfully, but when the withered little flower of a man, the chevalier, told in quaint brief sentences the story of the sieur de mauprat, his sufferings, his exile, and the nobility of his family, which had indeed, far back, come of royal stock, and then at last of guida and the child, more than one member of the court turned his head away with misty eyes. it remained for the duc de mauban to speak the word which hastened and compelled the end. rising in his place, he addressed to the court a few words of apology, inasmuch as he was without real power there, and then he turned to the chevalier. "monsieur le chevalier," said he, "i had the honour to know you in somewhat better days for both of us. you will allow me to greet you here with my profound respect. the sieur larchant de mauprat"--he turned to the president, his voice became louder--"the sieur de mauprat was my friend. he was with me upon the day i married the duchess guidabaldine. trouble, exile came to him. years passed, and at last in jersey i saw him again. it was the very day his grandchild was born. the name given to her was guidabaldine--the name of the duchese de mauban. she was guidabaldine landresse de landresse, she is my godchild. there is no better blood in france than that of the de mauprats of chambery, and the grandchild of my friend, her father being also of good norman blood, was worthy to be the wife of any prince in europe. i speak in the name of our order, i speak for frenchmen, i speak for france. if detricand, prince of vaufontaine, be not secured in his right of succession to the dukedom of bercy, france will not cease to protest till protest hath done its work. from france the duchy of bercy came. it was the gift of a french king to a frenchman, and she hath some claims upon the courtesy of the nations." for a moment after he took his seat there was absolute silence. then the president wrote upon a paper before him, and it was passed to each member of the court sitting with him. for a moment longer there was nothing heard save the scratching of a quill. philip recalled that day at bercy when the duke stooped and signed his name upon the deed of adoption and succession three times-three fateful times. at last the president, rising in his place, read the pronouncement of the court: that detricand, prince of vaufontaine, be declared true inheritor of the duchy of bercy, the nations represented here confirming him in his title. the president having spoken, philip rose, and, bowing to the congress with dignity and composure, left the chamber with count carignan damour. as he passed from the portico into the grounds of the palace, a figure came suddenly from behind a pillar and touched him on the arm. he turned quickly, and received upon the face a blow from a glove. the owner of the glove was general grandjon-larisse. chapter xliii "you understand, monsieur?" said grandjon-larisse. "perfectly--and without the glove, monsieur le general," answered philip quietly. "where shall my seconds wait upon you?" as he spoke he turned with a slight gesture towards damour. "in paris, monsieur, if it please you." "i should have preferred it here, monsieur le general--but paris, if it is your choice." "at 22, rue de mazarin, monsieur." then he made an elaborate bow to philip. "i bid you good-day, monsieur." "monseigneur, not monsieur," philip corrected. "they may deprive me of my duchy, but i am still prince philip d'avranche. i may not be robbed of my adoption." there was something so steady, so infrangible in philip's composure now, that grandjon-larisse, who had come to challenge a great adventurer, a marauder of honour, found his furious contempt checked by some integral power resisting disdain. he intended to kill philip--he was one of the most expert swordsmen in france--yet he was constrained to respect a composure not sangfroid and a firmness in misfortune not bravado. philip was still the man who had valiantly commanded men; who had held of the high places of the earth. in whatever adventurous blood his purposes had been conceived, or his doubtful plans accomplished, he was still, stripped of power, a man to be reckoned with: resolute in his course once set upon, and impulsive towards good as towards evil. he was never so much worth respect as when, a dispossessed sovereign with an empty title, discountenanced by his order, disbarred his profession, he held himself ready to take whatever penalty now came. in the presence of general grandjon-larisse, with whom was the might of righteous vengeance, he was the more distinguished figure. to philip now there came the cold quiet of the sinner, great enough to rise above physical fear, proud enough to say to the world: "come, i pay the debt i owe. we are quits. you have no favours to give, and i none to take. you have no pardon to grant, and i none to ask." at parting grandjon-larisse bowed to philip with great politeness, and said: "in paris then, monsieur le prince." philip bowed his head in assent. when they met again, it was at the entrance to the bois de boulogne near the maillot gate. it was a damp grey morning immediately before sunrise, and at first there was scarce light enough for the combatants to see each other perfectly, but both were eager and would not delay. as they came on guard the sun rose. philip, where he stood, was full in its light. he took no heed, and they engaged at once. after a few passes grandjon-larisse said: "you are in the light, monseigneur; the sun shines full upon you," and he pointed to the shade of a wall near by. "it is darker there." "one of us must certainly be in the dark-soon," answered philip grimly, but he removed to the wall. from the first philip took the offensive. he was more active, and he was quicker and lighter of fence than his antagonist. but grandjon-larisse had the surer eye, and was invincibly certain of hand and strong of wrist. at length philip wounded his opponent slightly in the left breast, and the seconds came forward to declare that honour was satisfied. but neither would listen or heed; their purpose was fixed to fight to the death. they engaged again, and almost at once the frenchman was slightly wounded in the wrist. suddenly taking the offensive and lunging freely, grandjon-larisse drove philip, now heated and less wary, backwards upon the wall. at last, by a dexterous feint, he beat aside philip's guard and drove the sword through his right breast at one fierce lunge. with a moan philip swayed and fell forward into the arms of damour, still grasping his weapon. grandjon-larisse stooped to the injured man. unloosing his fingers from the sword, philip stretched up a hand to his enemy. "i am hurt to death," he said. "permit my compliments to the best swordsman i have ever known." then with a touch of sorry humour he added: "you cannot doubt their sincerity." grandjon-larisse was turning away when philip called him back. "will you carry my profound regret to the countess chantavoine?" he whispered. "say that it lies with her whether heaven pardon me." grandjon-larisse hesitated an instant, then answered: "those who are in heaven, monseigneur, know best what heaven may do." philip's pale face took on a look of agony. "she is dead--she is dead!" he gasped. grandjon-larisse inclined his head, then after a moment, gravely said: "what did you think was left for a woman--for a chantavoine? it is not the broken heart that kills, but broken pride, monseigneur." so saying, he bowed again to philip and turned upon his heel. chapter xliv philip lay on a bed in the unostentatious lodging in the rue de vaugirard where damour had brought him. the surgeon had pronounced the wound mortal, giving him but a few hours to live. for long after he was gone philip was silent, but at length he said "you heard what grandjon-larisse said--it is broken pride that kills, damour." then he asked for pen, ink, and paper. they were brought to him. he tried the pen upon the paper, but faintness suddenly seized him, and he fell back unconscious. when he came to himself he was alone in the room. it was cold and cheerless--no fire on the hearth, no light save that flaring from a lamp in the street outside his window. he rang the bell at his hand. no one answered. he called aloud: "damour! damour!" damour was far beyond earshot. he had bethought him that now his place was in bercy, where he might gather up what fragments of good fortune remained, what of philip's valuables might be secured. ere he had fallen back insensible, philip, in trying the pen, had written his own name on a piece of paper. above this damour wrote for himself an order upon the chamberlain of bercy to enter upon philip's private apartments in the castle; and thither he was fleeing as philip lay dying in the dark room of the house in the rue de vaugirard. the woman of the house, to whose care philip was passed over by damour, had tired of watching, and had gone to spend one of his gold pieces for supper with her friends. meanwhile in the dark comfortless room, the light from without flickering upon his blanched face, philip was alone with himself, with memory, and with death. as he lay gasping, a voice seemed to ring through the silent room, repeating the same words again and again--and the voice was his own voice. it was himself--some other outside self of him--saying, in tireless repetition: "may i die a black, dishonourable death, abandoned and alone, if ever i deceive you. i should deserve that if i deceived you, guida!...." "a black, dishonourable death, abandoned and alone": it was like some horrible dirge chanting in his ear. pictures flashed before his eyes, strange imaginings. now he was passing through dark corridors, and the stone floor beneath was cold--so cold! he was going to some gruesome death, and monks with voices like his own voice were intoning: "abandoned and alone. alone--alone--abandoned and alone." . . . and now he was fighting, fighting on board the araminta. there was the roar of the great guns, the screaming of the carronade slides, the rattle of musketry, the groans of the dying, the shouts of his victorious sailors, the crash of the main-mast as it fell upon the bulwarks. then the swift sissing ripple of water, the thud of the araminta as she struck, and the cold chill of the seas as she went down. how cold was the sea--ah, how it chilled every nerve and tissue of his body! he roused to consciousness again. here was still the blank cheerless room, the empty house, the lamplight flaring through the window upon his stricken face, upon the dark walls, upon the white paper lying on the table beside him. paper--that was it--he must write, he must write while he had strength. with the last courageous effort of life, his strenuous will forcing the declining powers into obedience for a final combat, he drew the paper near, and began to write. the light flickered, wavered, he could just see the letters that he formed--no more. guida [he began], on the ecrehos i said to you: "if i deceive you may i die a black, dishonourable death, abandoned and alone!" it has all come true. you were right, always right, and i was always wrong. i never started fair with myself or with the world. i was always in too great a hurry; i was too ambitious, guida. ambition has killed me, and it has killed her--the comtesse. she is gone. what was it he said--if i could but remember what grandjon-larisse said--ah yes, yes!--after he had given me my death-wound, he said: "it is not the broken heart that kills, but broken pride." there is the truth. she is in her grave, and i am going out into the dark. he lay back exhausted for a moment, in desperate estate. the body was fighting hard that the spirit might confess itself before the vital spark died down for ever. seizing a glass of cordial near, he drank of it. the broken figure in its mortal defeat roused itself again, leaned over the paper, and a shaking hand traced on the brief piteous record of a life. i climbed too fast. things dazzled me. i thought too much of myself--myself, myself was everything always; and myself has killed me. in wanton haste i came to be admiral and sovereign duke, and it has all come to nothing--nothing. i wronged you, i denied you, there was the cause of all. there is no one to watch with me now to the one moment of life that counts. in this hour the clock of time fills all the space between earth and heaven. it will strike soon- the awful clock. it will soon strike twelve: and then it will be twelve of the clock for me always--always. i know you never wanted revenge on me, guida, but still you have it here. my life is no more now than vraic upon a rock. i cling, i cling, but that is all, and the waves break over me. i am no longer an admiral, i am no more a duke--i am nothing. it is all done. of no account with men i am going to my judgment with god. but you remain, and you are princess philip d'avranche, and your son--your son--will be prince guilbert d'avranche. but i can leave him naught, neither estates nor power. there is little honour in the title now. so it may be you will not use it. but you will have a new life: with my death happiness may begin again for you. that thought makes death easier. i was never worthy of you, never. i understand myself now, and i know that you have read me all these years, read me through and through. the letter you wrote me, never a day or night has passed but, one way or another, it has come home to me. there was a footfall outside his window. a roysterer went by in the light of the flaring lamp. he was singing a ribald song. a dog ran barking at his heels. the reveller turned, drew his sword, and ran the dog through, then staggered on with his song. philip shuddered, and with a supreme effort bent to the table again, and wrote on. you were right: you were my star, and i was so blind with selfishness and vanity i could not see. i am speaking the truth to you now, guida. i believe i might have been a great man if i had thought less of myself and more of others, more of you. greatness, i was mad for that, and my madness has brought me to this desolate end--alone. go tell maitresse aimable that she too was a good prophet. tell her that, as she foresaw, i called your name in death, and you did not come. one thing before all: teach your boy never to try to be great, but always to live well and to be just. teach him too that the world means better by him than he thinks, and that he must never treat it as his foe; he must not try to force its benefits and rewards. he must not approach it like the highwayman. tell him never to flatter. that is the worst fault in a gentleman, for flattery makes false friends and the flatterer himself false. tell him that good address is for ease and courtesy of life, but it must not be used to one's secret advantage as i have used mine to mortal undoing. if ever guilbert be in great temptation, tell him his father's story, and read him these words to you, written, as you see, with the cramped fingers of death. he could scarcely hold the pen now, and his eyes were growing dim. . . . i am come to the end of my strength. i thought i loved you, guida, but i know now that it was not love--not real love. yet it was all a twisted manhood had to give. there are some things of mine that you will keep for your son, if you forgive me dead whom you despised living. detricand duke of bercy will deal honourably by you. all that is mine at the castle of bercy he will secure to you. tell him i have written it so; though he will do it of himself, i know. he is a great man. as i have gone downwards he has come upwards. there has been a star in his sky too. i know it, i know it, guida, and he--he is not blind. the light is going, i cannot see. i can only-he struggled fiercely for breath, but suddenly collapsed upon the table, and his head fell forward upon the paper; one cheek lying in the wet ink of his last written words, the other, cold and stark, turned to the window. the light from the lamp without flickered on it in gruesome sportiveness. the eyes stared and stared from the little dark room out into the world. but they did not see. the night wore on. at last came a knocking, knocking at the door-tap! tap! tap! but he did not hear. a moment of silence, and again came a knocking--knocking--knocking . . . ! chapter xlv the white and red flag of jersey was flying half-mast from the cohue royale, and the bell of the parish church was tolling. it was saturday, but little business was being done in the vier marchi. chattering people were gathered at familiar points, and at the foot of la pyramide a large group surrounded two sailor-men just come from gaspe, bringing news of adventuring jersiais--elie mattingley, carterette and ranulph delagarde. this audience quickly grew, for word was being passed on from one little group to another. so keen was interest in the story told by the homecoming sailors, that the great event which had brought them to the vier marchi was, for the moment, almost neglected. presently, however, a cannon-shot, then another, and another, roused the people to remembrance. the funeral cortege of admiral prince philip d'avranche was about to leave the cohue royale, and every eye was turned to the marines and sailors lining the road from the court-house to the church. the isle of jersey, ever stubbornly loyal to its own--even those whom the outside world contemned or cast aside--jealous of its dignity even with the dead, had come to bury philip d'avranche with all good ceremony. there had been abatements to his honour, but he had been a strong man and he had done strong things, and he was a jerseyman born, a norman of the normans. the royal court had judged between him and guida, doing tardy justice to her, but of him they had ever been proud; and where conscience condemned here, vanity commended there. in any event they reserved the right, independent of all non-jersiais, to do what they chose with their dead. for what philip had been as an admiral they would do his body reverence now; for what he had done as a man, that belonged to another tribunal. it had been proposed by the admiral of the station to bury him from his old ship, the imperturbable, but the royal court made its claim, and so his body had lain in state in the cohue royale. the admiral joined hands with the island authorities. in both cases it was a dogged loyalty. the sailors of england knew philip d'avranche as a fighter, even as the royal court knew him as a famous and dominant jerseyman. a battle-ship is a world of its own, and jersey is a world of its own. they neither knew nor cared for the comment of the world without; or, knowing, refused to consider it. when the body of philip was carried from the cohue royale signals were made to the imperturbable in the tide-way. from all her ships in company forty guns were fired funeral-wise and the flags were struck halfmast. slowly the cortege uncoiled itself to one long unbroken line from the steps of the cohue royale to the porch of the church. the jurats in their red robes, the officers, sailors, and marines, added colour to the pageant. the coffin was covered by the flag of jersey with the arms of william the conqueror in the canton. of the crowd some were curious, some stoical; some wept, some essayed philosophy. "et ben," said one, "he was a brave admiral!" "bravery was his trade," answered another: "act like a sheep and you'll be eaten by the wolf." "it was a bad business about her that was guida landresse," remarked a third. "every man knows himself, god knows all men," snuffled the fanatical barber who had once delivered a sermon from the pompe des brigands. "he made things lively while he lived, ba su!" droned the jailer of the vier prison. "but he has folded sails now." "ma fe, yes, he sleeps like a porpoise now, and white as a wax he looked up there in the cohue royale," put in a centenier standing by. a voice came shrilly over the head of the centenier. "as white as you'll look yellow one day, bat'd'lagoule! yellow and green, oui-gia--yellow like a bad apple, and cowardly green as a leek." this was manon moignard the witch. "man doux d'la vie, where's the master of burials?" babbled the jailer. "the apprentice does the obs'quies to-day." "the master's sick of a squinzy," grunted the centenier. "so hatchetface and bundle-o'-nails there brings dust to dust, amen." all turned now to the undertaker's apprentice, a grim, saturnine figure with his grey face, protuberant eyes, and obsequious solemnity, in which lurked a callous smile. the burial of the great, the execution of the wicked, were alike to him. in him fate seemed to personify life's revenges, its futilities, its calculating ironies. the flag-draped coffin was just about to pass, and the fanatical barber harked back to philip. "they say it was all empty honours with him afore he died abroad." "a full belly's a full belly if it's only full of straw," snapped manon moignard. "who was it brought him home?" asked the jailer. "none that was born on jersey, but two that lived here," remarked maitre damian, the schoolmaster from st. aubins. "that chevalier of champsavoys and the other duc de bercy," interposed the centenier. maitre damian tapped his stick upon the ground, and said oracularly: "it is not for me to say, but which is the rightful duke and which is not, there is the political question!" "pardi, that's it," answered the centenier. "why did detricand duke turn philip duke out of duchy, see him killed, then fetch him home to jersey like a brother? ah, man pethe benin, that's beyond me! "those great folks does things their own ways; oui-gia," remarked the jailer. "why did detricand duke go back to france?" asked maitre damian, cocking his head wisely; "why did he not stay for obsequies--he?" "that's what i say," answered the jailer, "those great folks does things their own ways." "ma fistre, i believe you," ejaculated the centenier. "but for the chevalier there, for a frenchman, that is a man after god's own heart-and mine." "ah then, look at that," said manon moignard, with a sneer, "when one pleases you and god it is a ticket to heaven, diantre!" but in truth what detricand and the chevalier had done was but of human pity. the day after the duel, detricand had arrived in paris to proceed thence to bercy. there he heard of philip's death and of damour's desertion. sending officers to bercy to frustrate any possible designs of damour, he, with the chevalier, took philip's body back to jersey, delivering it to those who would do it honour. detricand did not see guida. for all that might be said to her now the chevalier should be his mouthpiece. in truth there could be no better mouthpiece for him. it was detricand--detricand--detricand, like a child, in admiration and in affection. if guida did not understand all now, there should come a time when she would understand. detricand would wait. she should find that he was just, that her honour and the honour of her child were safe with him. as for guida, it was not grief she felt in the presence of this tragedy. no spark of love sprang up, even when remembrance was now brought to its last vital moment. but a fathomless pity stirred her heart, that philip's life had been so futile and that all he had done was come to naught. his letter, blotched and blotted by his own dead cheek, she read quietly. yet her heart ached bitterly--so bitterly that her face became pinched with pain; for here in this letter was despair, here was the final agony of a broken life, here were the last words of the father of her child to herself. she saw with a sudden pang that in writing of guilbert he only said your child, not ours. what a measureless distance there was between them in the hour of his death, and how clearly the letter showed that he understood at last! the evening before the burial she went with the chevalier to the cohue royale. as she looked at philip's dead face bitterness and aching compassion were quieted within her. the face was peaceful--strong. there was on it no record of fret or despair. its impassive dignity seemed to say that all accounts had been settled, and in this finality there was quiet; as though he had paid the price, as though the long account against him in the markets of life was closed and cancelled, and the debtor freed from obligation for ever. poignant impulses in her stilled, pity lost its wounding acuteness. she shed no tears, but at last she stretched out her hand and let it rest upon his forehead for a moment. "poor philip!" she said. then she turned and slowly left the room, followed by the chevalier, and by the noiseless dormy jamais, who had crept in behind them. as dormy jamais closed the door, he looked back to where the coffin lay, and in the compassion of fools he repeated guida's words: "poor philip!" he said. now, during philip's burial, dormy jamais sat upon the roof of the cohue royale, as he had done on the day of the battle of jersey, looking down on the funeral cortege and the crowd. he watched it all until the ruffle of drums at the grave told that the body was being lowered--four ruffles for an admiral. as the people began to disperse and the church bell ceased tolling, dormy turned to another bell at his elbow, and set it ringing to call the royal court together. sharp, mirthless, and acrid it rang: chicane--chicane! chicane--chicane! chicane--chicane! in jersey-a year later chapter xlvi "what is that for?" asked the child, pointing. detricand put the watch to the child's ear. "it's to keep time. listen. do you hear it-tictic, tic-tic?"' the child nodded his head gleefully, and his big eyes blinked with understanding. "doesn't it ever stop?" he asked. "this watch never stops," replied detricand. "but there are plenty of watches that do." "i like watches," said the child sententiously. "would you like this one?" asked detricand. the child drew in a gurgling breath of pleasure. "i like it. why doesn't mother have a watch?" the man did not answer the last question. "you like it?" he said again, and he nodded his head towards the little fellow. "h'm, it keeps good time, excellent time it keeps," and he rose to meet the child's mother, who having just entered the room, stood looking at them. it was guida. she had heard the last words, and she glanced towards the watch curiously. detricand smiled in greeting, and said to her: "do you remember it?" he held up the watch. she came forward eagerly. "is it--is it that indeed, the watch that the dear grandpethe--?" he nodded and smiled. "yes, it has never once stopped since the moment he gave it me in the vier-marchi seven years ago. it has had a charmed existence amid many rough doings and accidents. i was always afraid of losing it, always afraid of an accident to it. it has seemed to me that if i could keep it things would go right with me, and things come out right in the end. superstition, of course, but i lived a long time in jersey. i feel more a jerseyman than a frenchman sometimes." although his look seemed to rest but casually on her face, it was evident he was anxious to feel the effect of every word upon her, and he added: "when the sieur de mauprat gave me the watch he said, 'may no time be ill spent that it records for you.'" "perhaps he knows his wish was fulfilled," answered guida. "you think, then, that i've kept my promise?" "i am sure he would say so," she replied warmly. "it isn't the promise i made to him that i mean, but the promise i made to you." she smiled brightly. "you know what i think of that. i told you long ago." she turned her head away, for a bright colour had come to her cheek. "you have done great things, prince," she added in a low tone. he flashed a look of inquiry at her. to his ear there was in her voice a little touch--not of bitterness, but of something, as it were, muffled or reserved. was she thinking how he had robbed her child of the chance of heritage at bercy? he did not reply, but, stooping, put the watch again to the child's ear. "there you are, monseigneur!" "why do you call him monseigneur?" she asked. "guilbert has no title to your compliment." a look half-amused, half-perplexed, crossed over detricand's face. "do you think so?" he said musingly. stooping once more, he said to the child: "would you like the watch?" and added quickly, "you shall have it when you're grown up." "do you really mean it?" asked guida, delighted; "do you really mean to give him the grandpethe's watch one day?" "oh yes, at least that--one day. but i have something more," he added quickly--" something more for you;" and he drew from his pocket a miniature set in rubies and diamonds. "i have brought you this from the duc de mauban--and this," he went on, taking a letter from his pocket, and handing it with the gift. "the duke thought you might care to have it. it is the face of your godmother, the duchess guidabaldine." guida looked at the miniature earnestly, and then said a little wistfully: "how beautiful a face--but the jewels are much too fine for me! what should one do here with rubies and diamonds? how can i thank the duke!" "not so. he will thank you for accepting it. he begged me to say--as you will find by his letter to you--that if you will but go to him upon a visit with this great man here"--pointing to the child with a smile-"he will count it one of the greatest pleasures of his life. he is too old to come to you, but he begs you to go to him--the chevalier, and you, and guilbert here. he is much alone now, and he longs for a little of that friendship which can be given by but few in this world. he counts upon your coming, for i said i thought you would." "it would seem so strange," she answered, "to go from this cottage of my childhood, to which i have come back in peace at last--from this kitchen, to the chateau of the duc de mauban." "but it was sure to come," he answered. "this kitchen to which i come also to redeem my pledge after seven years, it belongs to one part of your life. but there is another part to fulfil,"--he stooped and passed his hands over the curls of the child," and for your child here you should do it." "i do not find your meaning," she said after a moment's deliberation. "i do not know what you would have me understand." "in some ways you and i would be happier in simple surroundings," he replied gravely, "but it would seem that to play duly our part in the world, we must needs move in wider circles. to my mind this kitchen is the most delightful spot in the world. here i took a fresh commission of life. i went out, a sort of battered remnant, to a forlorn hope; and now i come back to headquarters once again--not to be praised," he added in an ironical tone, and with a quick gesture of almost boyish shyness-"not to be praised; only to show that from a grain of decency left in a man may grow up some sheaves of honest work and plain duty." "no, it is much more than that, it is much, much more than that," she broke in. "no, i am afraid it is not," he answered; "but that is not what i wished to say. i wished to say that for monseigneur here--" a little flash of anger came into her eyes. he is no monseigneur, he is guilbert d'avranche," she said bitterly. "it is not like you to mock my child, prince. oh, i know you mean it playfully," she hurriedly added, "but--but it does not sound right to me." "for the sake of monseigneur the heir to the duchy of bercy," he added, laying his hand upon the child's head, "these things your devout friends suggest, you should do, princess." her clear unwavering eye looked steadfastly at him, but her face turned pale. "why do you call him monseigneur the heir to the duchy of bercy?" she said almost coldly, and with a little fear in her look too. "because i have come here to tell you the truth, and to place in your hands the record of an act of justice." drawing from his pocket a parchment gorgeous with seals, he stooped, and taking the hands of the child, he placed it in them. "hold it tight, hold it tight, my little friend, for it is your very own," he said to the child with cheerful kindliness. then stepping back a little, and looking earnestly at guida, he added with a motion of the hand towards the child: "you must learn the truth from him." "oh, what can you mean--what can you mean?" she exclaimed. dropping upon her knees, and running an arm round the child, she opened the parchment and read. "what--what right has he to this?" she cried in a voice of dismay. "a year ago you dispossessed his father from the duchy. ah, i do not understand it! you--only you are the duc de bercy." her eyes were shining with a happy excitement and tenderness. no such look had been in them for many a day. something that had long slept was waking in her, something long voiceless was speaking. this man brought back to her heart a glow she had never thought to feel again, the glow of the wonder of life and of a girlish faith. "i am only detricand of vaufontaine," he answered. "what, did you--could you think that i would dispossess your child? his father was the adopted son of the duc de bercy. nothing could wipe that out, neither law nor nations. you are always princess guida, and your child is always prince guilbert d'avranche--and more than that." his voice became lower, his war-beaten face lighted with that fire and force which had made him during years past a figure in the war records of europe. "i unseated philip d'avranche," he continued, "because he acquired the duchy through--a misapprehension; because the claims of the house of vaufontaine were greater. we belonged; he was an alien. he had a right to his adoption, he had no right to his duchy--no real right in the equity of nations. but all the time i never forgot that the wife of philip d'avranche and her child had rights infinitely beyond his own. all that he achieved was theirs by every principle of justice. my plain duty was to win for your child that succession belonging to him by all moral right. when philip d'avranche was killed, i set to work to do for your child what had been done by another for philip d'avranche. i have made him my heir. when he is of age i shall abdicate from the duchy in his favour. this deed, countersigned by the powers that dispossessed his father, secures to him the duchy when he is old enough to govern." guida had listened like one in a dream. a hundred feelings possessed her, and one more than all. she suddenly saw all detricand's goodness to her stretch out in a long line of devoted friendship, from this day to that far-off hour seven years before, when he had made a vow to her-kept how nobly! devoted friendship--was it devoted friendship alone, even with herself? in a tumult of emotions she answered him hurriedly. "no, no, no, no! i cannot accept it. this is not justice, this is a gift for which there is no example in the world's history." "i thought it best," he went on quietly, "to govern bercy myself during these troubled years. so far its neutrality has been honoured, but who can tell what may come! as a vaufontaine it is my duty to see that bercy's interests are duly protected amidst the troubles of europe." guida got to her feet now and stood looking dazedly at the parchment in her hand. the child, feeling himself neglected, ran out into the garden. there was moisture in guida's eyes as she presently said: "i had not thought that any man could be so noble--no, not even you." "you should not doubt yourself so," he answered meaningly. "i am the work of your hands. if i have fought my way back to reputable life again--" he paused, and took from his pocket a handkerchief. "this was the gage," he said, holding it up. "do you remember the day i came to return it to you, and carried it off again?" "it was foolish of you to keep it," she answered softly, "as foolish of you as to think that i shall accept for my child these great honours." "but suppose the child in after years should blame you?" he answered slowly and with emphasis. "suppose that guilbert should say, what right had you, my mother, to refuse what was my due?" this was the question she had asked herself long, long ago. it smote her heart now. what right had she to reject this gift of fate to her child? scarcely above a whisper she replied: "of course he might say that, but how, oh, how should we simple folk, he and i, be fitted for these high places--yet? now that what i desired all these years for him has come, i have not the courage." "you have friends to help you in all you do," he answered meaningly. "but friends cannot always be with one," she answered. "that depends upon the friends. there is one friend of yours who has known you for eighteen years. eighteen years' growth should make a strong friendship--there was always friendship on his part at least. he can be a still stronger and better friend. he comes now to offer you the remainder of a life for which your own goodness is the guarantee. he comes to offer you a love of which your own soul must be the only judge, for you have eyes that see and a spirit that knows. the chevalier needs you, and the duc de mauban needs you, but detricand of vaufontaine needs you a thousand times more." "oh, hush--but no, you must not!" she broke in, her face all crimson, her lips trembling. "but yes, i must," he answered quickly. "you find peace here, but it is the peace of inaction. it dulls the brain, and life winds in upon itself wearily at the last. but out there is light and fire and action and the quick-beating pulse, and the joy of power wisely used, even to the end. you come of a great people, you were born to great things; your child has rights accorded now by every court of europe. you must act for him. for your child's sake, for my sake come out into the great field of life with me--as my wife, guida." she turned to him frankly, she looked at him steadfastly, the colour in her face came and went, but her eyes glowed with feeling. "after all that has happened?" she asked in a low tone. "it could only be because of all that has happened," he answered. "no, no, you do not understand," she said quickly, a great pain in her voice. "i have suffered so, these many, many years! i shall never be light-hearted again. and i am not fitted for such high estate. do you not see what you ask of me--to go from this cottage to a palace?" "i love you too well to ask you to do what you could not. you must trust me," he answered, "you must give your life its chance, you must--" "but listen to me," she interjected with breaking tones; "i know as surely as i know--as i know the face of my child, that the youth in me is dead. my summer came--and went--long ago. no, no, you do not understand--i would not make you unhappy. i must live only to make my child happy. that love has not been marred." "and i must be judge of what is for my own happiness. and for yours--if i thought my love would make you unhappy for even one day, i should not offer it. i am your lover, but i am also your friend. had it not been for you i might have slept in a drunkard's grave in jersey. were it not for you, my bones would now be lying in the vendee. i left my peasants, i denied myself death with them to serve you. the old cause is gone. you and your child are now my only cause--" "you make it so hard for me," she broke in. "think of the shadows from the past always in my eyes, always in my heart--you cannot wear the convict's chain without the lagging footstep afterwards." "shadows--friend of my soul, how should i dare come to you if there had never been shadows in your life! it is because you--you have suffered, because you know, that i come. out of your miseries, the convict's lagging step, you say? think what i was. there was never any wrong in you, but i was sunk in evil depths of folly--" "i will not have you say so," she interrupted; "you never in your life did a dishonourable thing." "then again i say, trust me. for, on the honour of a vaufontaine, i believe that happiness will be yours as my wife. the boy, you see how he and i--" "ah, you are so good to him!" "you must give me chance and right to serve him. what else have you or i to look forward to? the honours of this world concern us little. the brightest joys are not for us. we have work before us, no rainbow ambitions. but the boy--think for him---" he paused. after a little, she held out her hand towards him. "good-bye," she said softly. "good-bye--you say good-bye to me!" he exclaimed in dismay. "till--till to-morrow," she answered, and she smiled. the smile had a little touch of the old archness which was hers as a child, yet, too, a little of the sadness belonging to the woman. but her hand-clasp was firm and strong; and her touch thrilled him. power was there, power with infinite gentleness. and he understood her; which was more than all. he turned at the door. she was standing very still, the parchment with the great seals yet in her hand. without speaking, she held it out to him, as though uncertain what to do with it. as he passed through the doorway he smiled, and said: "to-morrow--to-morrow!" epilogue st. john's eve had passed. in the fields at bonne-nuit bay the "browbrow! ben-ben!" of the song of the cauldron had affrighted the night; riotous horns, shaming the blare of a witches' sabbath, had been blown by those who, as old jean touzel said, carried little lead under their noses. the meadows had been full of the childlike islanders welcoming in the longest day of the year. mid-summer day had also come and gone, but with less noise and clamour, for st. john's fair had been carried on with an orderly gaiety--as the same jean touzel said, like a sheet of music. even the french singers and dancers from st. malo had been approved in norman phrases by the bailly and the jurats, for now there was no longer war between england and france, napoleon was at st. helena, and the bourbons were come again to their own. it had been a great day, and the roads were cloudy with the dust of midsummer revellers going to their homes. but though some went many stayed, camping among the booths, since the fair was for tomorrow and for other to-morrows after. and now, the day's sport being over, the superstitious were making the circle of the rock called william's horse in boulay bay, singing the song of william, who, with the fabled sprig of sacred mistletoe, turned into a rock the kelpie horse carrying him to death. there was one boat, however, which putting out into the bay did not bear towards william's horse, but, catching the easterly breeze, bore away westward towards the point of plemont. upon the stern of the boat was painted in bright colours, hardi biaou. "we'll be there soon after sunset," said the grizzled helmsman, jean touzel, as he glanced from the full sail to the setting sun. neither of his fellow-voyagers made reply, and for a time there was silence, save for the swish of the gunwale through the water. but at last jean said: "su' m'n ame, but it is good this, after that!" and he jerked his head back towards the fair-ground on the hill. "even you will sleep to-night, dormy jamais, and you, my wife of all." maitresse aimable shook her great head slowly on the vast shoulders, and shut her heavy eyelids. "dame, but i think you are sleeping now--you," jean went on. maitresse aimable's eyes opened wide, and again she shook her head. jean looked a laugh at her through his great brass-rimmed spectacles and added: "ba su, then i know. it is because we go to sleep in my hut at plemont where she live so long. i know, you never sleep there." maitresse aimable shook her head once more, and drew from her pocket a letter. at sight of it dormy jamais crawled quickly over to where the femme de ballast sat, and, 'reaching out, he touched it with both hands. "princess of all the world--bidemme," he said, and he threw out his arms and laughed. two great tears were rolling down maitresse aimable's cheeks. "how to remember she, ma fuifre!" said jean touzel. "but go on to the news of her." maitresse aimable spread the letter out and looked at it lovingly. her voice rose slowly up like a bubble from the bottom of a well, and she spoke. "ah man pethe benin, when it come, you are not here, my jean. i take it to the greffier to read for me. it is great news, but the way he read so sour i do not like, ba su! i see maitre damian the schoolmaster pass my door. i beckon, and he come. i take my letter here, i hold it close to his eyes. 'read on that for me, maitre damian--you,' i say. o my good, when he read it, it sing sweet like a song, pergui! once, two, three times i make him read it out--he has the voice so soft and round, maitre damian there." "glad and good!" interrupted jean. "what is the news, my wife? what is the news of highnesss--he?" maitresse aimable smiled, then she tried to speak, but her voice broke. "the son--the son--at last he is the duke of bercy. e'fin, it is all here. the new king of france, he is there at the palace when the child which it have sleep on my breast, which its mother i have love all the years, kiss her son as the duke of bercy." "ch'est ben," said jean, "you can trust the good god in the end." dormy jamais did not speak. his eyes were fastened upon the north, where lay the paternoster rocks. the sun had gone down, the dusk was creeping on, and against the dark of the north there was a shimmer of fire--a fire that leapt and quivered about the paternoster rocks. dormy pointed with his finger. ghostly lights or miracle of nature, these fitful flames had come and gone at times these many years, and now again the wonder of the unearthly radiance held their eyes. "gatd'en'ale, i don't understand you--you!" said jean, speaking to the fantastic fires as though they were human. "there's plenty things we see we can't understand, and there's plenty we understand we can't never see. ah bah, so it goes!" said maitresse aimable, and she put guida's letter in her bosom. ....................... upon the hill of plemont above them, a stone taken from the chimney of the hut where guida used to live, stood upright beside a little grave. upon it was carved: biribi, fidele ami de quels jours! in the words of maitresse aimable, "ah bah, so it goes." finis note: it is possible that students of english naval history may find in the life of philip d'avranche, as set forth in this book, certain resemblances to the singular and long forgotten career of the young jerseyman, philip d'auvergne of the "arethusa," who in good time became vice-admiral of the white and his serene highness the duke of bouillon. because all the relatives and direct descendants of admiral prince philip d'auvergne are dead, i am the more anxious to state that, apart from one main incident, the story here-before written is not taken from the life of that remarkable man. yet i will say also that i have drawn upon the eloquence, courage, and ability of philip d'auvergne to make the better part of philip d'avranche, whose great natural fault, an overleaping ambition, was the same fault that brought the famous prince admiral to a piteous death in the end. in any case, this tale has no claim to be called a historical novel. jersey words and phrases with their equivalents in english or french a bi'tot = a bientot. achocre = dolt, ass. ah bah! (difficult to render in english, but meaning much the same as "well! well!") ah be! = eh bien. alles kedainne = to go quickly, to skedaddle. bachouar = a fool. ba su! = bien sur. bashin = large copper-lined stew-pan. batd'lagoule = chatterbox. bedgone = shortgown or deep bodice of print. beganne = daft fellow. biaou = beau. bidemme! = exclamation of astonishment. bouchi = mouthful. bilzard = idiot. chelin = shilling. ch'est ben = c'est bien. cotil = slope of a dale. coum est qu'on etes? } coum est qu'ou vos portest? } comment vous portez-vous! couzain or couzaine = cousin. crasset = metal oil-lamp of classic shape. critchett = cricket. diantre = diable. dreschiaux = dresser. e'fant = enfant. e'fin = enfin. eh ben = eh bien. esmanus = scarecrow. es-tu gentiment? = are you well? et ben = and now. gache-a-penn! = misery me! gaderabotin! = deuce take it! garche = lass. gatd'en'ale! = god be with us! grandpethe = grandpere. han = kind of grass for the making of ropes, baskets, etc. hanap = drinking-cup. hardi = very. hus = lower half of a door. (doors of many old jersey houses were divided horizontally, for protection against cattle, to let out the smoke, etc.) je me crais; je to crais; je crais ben! = i believe it; true for you; i well believe it! ma fe! } ma fistre! }= ma foi! ma fuifre! } mai grand doux! = but goodness gracious! man doux! = my good, oh dear! (originally man dieu!) man doux d'la vie! = upon my life! man gui, mon pethe! = mon dieu, mon pere! man pethe benin! = my good father! marchi = marche. mogue = drinking-cup. nannin; nannin-gia! = no; no indeed! ni bouf ni baf } expression of absolute negation, untranslatable. ni fiche ni bran } oui-gia! = yes indeed! par made = par mon dieu. pardi! } pardingue! }= old forms of par dieul pergui! } pend'loque = ragamuffin. queminzolle = overcoat. racllyi = hanging rack from the rafters of a kitchen. respe d'la compagnie! = with all respect for present company. shale ben = very well. simnel = a sort of biscuit, cup-shaped, supposed to represent unleavened bread, specially eaten at easter. soupe a la graisse = very thin soup, chiefly made of water, with a few vegetables and some dripping. su' m'n ame = sur mon ame! tcheche? = what's that you say? trejous = toujours. tres-ba = tres bien. veille = a wide low settle. (probably from lit de fouaille.) also applied to evening gatherings, when, sitting cross-legged on the veille, the neighbours sang, talked, and told stories. verges = the land measure of jersey, equal to forty perches. two and a quarter vergees are equivalent to the english acre. vier = vieux. vraic = a kind of sea-weed. etext editor's bookmarks: it is not the broken heart that kills, but broken pride this ebook was produced by david widger <widger@cecomet.net> the battle of the strong [a romance of two kingdoms] by gilbert parker contents: the invasion eleven years after in france--near five months after in jersey five years later during one year later in jersey--a year later introduction this book is a protest and a deliverance. for seven years i had written continuously of canada, though some short stories of south sea life, and the novel mrs. falchion, had, during that time, issued from my pen. it looked as though i should be writing of the far north all my life. editors had begun to take that view; but from the start it had never been my view. even when writing pierre and his people i was determined that i should not be cabined, cribbed, and confined in one field; that i should not, as some other men have done, wind in upon myself, until at last each succeeding book would be but a variation of some previous book, and i should end by imitating myself, become the sacrifice to the god of the pin-hole. i was warned not to break away from canada; but all my life i had been warned, and all my life i had followed my own convictions. i would rather not have written another word than be corralled, bitted, saddled, and ridden by that heartless broncho-buster, the public, which wants a man who has once pleased it, to do the same thing under the fret of whip and spur for ever. when i went to the island of jersey, in 1897, it was to shake myself free of what might become a mere obsession. i determined that, as wide as my experiences had been in life, so would my writing be, whether it pleased the public or not. i was determined to fulfil myself; and in doing so to take no instructions except those of my own conscience, impulse, and conviction. even then i saw fields of work which would occupy my mind, and such skill as i had, for many a year to come. i saw the channel islands, egypt, south africa, and india. in all these fields save india, i have given my pegasus its bridle-rein, and, so far, i have no reason to feel that my convictions were false. i write of canada still, but i have written of the channel islands, i have written of egypt, i have written of england and south africa, and my public--that is, those who read my books--have accepted me in all these fields without demur. i believe i have justified myself in not accepting imprisonment in the field where i first essayed to turn my observation of life to account. i went to jersey, therefore, with my teeth set, in a way; yet happily and confidently. i had been dealing with french canada for some years, and a step from quebec, which was french, to jersey, which was norman french, was but short. it was a question of atmosphere solely. whatever may be thought of the 'battle of the strong' i have not yet met a jerseyman who denies to it the atmosphere of the place. it could hardly have lacked it, for there were twenty people, deeply intelligent, immensely interested in my design, and they were of jersey families which had been there for centuries. they helped me, they fed me with dialect, with local details, with memories, with old letters, with diaries of their forebears, until, if i had gone wrong, it would have been through lack of skill in handling my material. i do not think i went wrong, though i believe that i could construct the book more effectively if i had to do it again. yet there is something in looseness of construction which gives an air of naturalness; and it may be that this very looseness which i notice in 'the battle of the strong' has had something to do with giving it such a great circle of readers; though this may appear paradoxical. when it first appeared, it did not make the appeal which 'the right of way' or 'the seats of the mighty' made, but it justified itself, it forced its way, it assured me that i had done right in shaking myself free from the control of my own best work. the book has gone on increasing its readers year by year, and when it appeared in nelson's delightful cheap edition in england it had an immediate success, and has sold by the hundred thousand in the last four years. one of the first and most eager friends of 'the battle of the strong' was mrs. langtry, now lady de bathe, who, born in jersey, and come of an old jersey family, was well able to judge of the fidelity of the life and scene which it depicted. she greatly desired the novel to be turned into a play, and so it was. the adaptation, however, was lacking in much, and though miss marie burroughs and maurice barrymore played in it, success did not attend its dramatic life. 'the battle of the strong' was called an historical novel by many critics, but the disclaimer which i made in the first edition i make again. 'the seats of the mighty' came nearer to what might properly be called an historical novel than any other book which i have written save, perhaps, 'a ladder of swords'. 'the battle of the strong' is not without faithful historical elements, but the book is essentially a romance, in which character was not meant to be submerged by incident; and i do not think that in this particular the book falls short of the design of its author. there was this enormous difference between life in the island of jersey and life in french canada, that in jersey, tradition is heaped upon tradition, custom upon custom, precept upon precept, until every citizen of the place is bound by innumerable cords of a code from which he cannot free himself. it is a little island, and that it is an island is evidence of a contracted life, though, in this case, a life which has real power and force. the life in french canada was also traditional, and custom was also somewhat tyrannous, but it was part of a great continent in which the expansion of the man and of a people was inevitable. tradition gets somewhat battered in a new land, and even where, as in french canada, the priest and the church have such supervision, and can bring such pressure to bear that every man must feel its influence; yet there is a happiness, a blitheness, and an exhilaration even in the most obscure quarter of french canada which cannot be observed in the island of jersey. in jersey the custom of five hundred years ago still reaches out and binds; and so small is the place that every square foot of it almost--even where the potato sprouts, and the potato is jersey's greatest friend--is identified with some odd incident, some naive circumstance, some big, vivid, and striking historical fact. behind its rugged coasts a little people proudly hold by their own and to their own, and even a jersey criminal has more friends in his own environment than probably any other criminal anywhere save in corsica; while friendship is a passion even with the pettiness by which it is perforated. reading this book again now after all these years, i feel convinced that the book is truly jersiais, and i am grateful to it for having brought me out from the tyranny of the field in which i first sought for a hearing. note a list of jersey words and phrases used herein, with their english or french equivalents, will be found at the end of the book. the norman and patois words are printed as though they were english, some of them being quite anglicised in jersey. for the sake of brevity i have spoken of the lieutenant-bailly throughout as bailly; and, in truth, he performed all the duties of bailly in those days when this chief of the jurats of the island usually lived in england. proem there is no man living to-day who could tell you how the morning broke and the sun rose on the first day of january 1800; who walked in the mall, who sauntered in the park with the prince: none lives who heard and remembers the gossip of the moment, or can give you the exact flavour of the speech and accent of the time. down the long aisle of years echoes the air but not the tone; the trick of form comes to us but never the inflection. the lilt of the sensations, the idiosyncrasy of voice, emotion, and mind of the first hour of our century must now pass from the printed page to us, imperfectly realised; we may not know them through actual retrospection. the more distant the scene, the more uncertain the reflection; and so it must needs be with this tale, which will take you back to even twenty years before the century began. then, as now, england was a great power outside these small islands. she had her foot firmly planted in australia, in asia, and in america-though, in bitterness, the american colonies had broken free, and only canada was left to her in that northern hemisphere. she has had, in her day, to strike hard blows even for scotland, ireland, and wales. but among her possessions is one which, from the hour its charter was granted it by king john, has been loyal, unwavering, and unpurchasable. until the beginning of the century the language of this province was not our language, nor is english its official language to-day; and with a pretty pride oblivious of contrasts, and a simplicity unconscious of mirth, its people say: "we are the conquering race; we conquered england, england did not conquer us." a little island lying in the wash of st. michael's basin off the coast of france, norman in its foundations and in its racial growth, it has been as the keeper of the gate to england; though so near to france is it, that from its shores on a fine day may be seen the spires of coutances, from which its spiritual welfare was ruled long after england lost normandy. a province of british people, speaking still the norman-french that the conqueror spoke; such is the island of jersey, which, with guernsey, alderney, sark, herm, and jethou, form what we call the channel isles, and the french call the iles de la manche. volume 1. chapter i in all the world there is no coast like the coast of jersey; so treacherous, so snarling; serrated with rocks seen and unseen, tortured by currents maliciously whimsical, encircled by tides that sweep up from the antarctic world with the devouring force of a monstrous serpent projecting itself towards its prey. the captain of these tides, travelling up through the atlantic at a thousand miles an hour, enters the english channel, and drives on to the thames. presently retreating, it meets another pursuing antarctic wave, which, thus opposed in its straightforward course, recoils into st. michael's bay, then plunges, as it were, upon a terrible foe. they twine and strive in mystic conflict, and, in rage of equal power, neither vanquished nor conquering, circle, mad and desperate, round the channel isles. impeded, impounded as they riot through the flumes of sea, they turn furiously, and smite the cliffs and rocks and walls of their prison-house. with the frenzied winds helping them, the island coasts and norman shores are battered by their hopeless onset: and in that channel between alderney and cap de la hague man or ship must well beware, for the race of alderney is one of the death-shoots of the tides. before they find their way to the main again, these harridans of nature bring forth a brood of currents which ceaselessly fret the boundaries of the isles. always, always the white foam beats the rocks, and always must man go warily along these coasts. the swimmer plunges into a quiet pool, the snowy froth that masks the reefs seeming only the pretty fringe of sentient life to a sleeping sea; but presently an invisible hand reaches up and grasps him, an unseen power drags him exultingly out to the main-and he returns no more. many a jersey boatman, many a fisherman who has lived his whole life in sight of the paternosters on the north, the ecrehos on the east, the dog's nest on the south, or the corbiere on the west, has in some helpless moment been caught by the unsleeping currents which harry his peaceful borders, or the rocks that have eluded the hunters of the sea, and has yielded up his life within sight of his own doorway, an involuntary sacrifice to the navigator's knowledge and to the calm perfection of an admiralty chart. yet within the circle of danger bounding this green isle the love of home and country is stubbornly, almost pathetically, strong. isolation, pride of lineage, independence of government, antiquity of law and custom, and jealousy of imperial influence or action have combined to make a race self-reliant even to perverseness, proud and maybe vain, sincere almost to commonplaceness, unimaginative and reserved, with the melancholy born of monotony--for the life of the little country has coiled in upon itself, and the people have drooped to see but just their own selves reflected in all the dwellers of the land, whichever way they turn. a hundred years ago, however, there was a greater and more general lightness of heart and vivacity of spirit than now. then the song of the harvester and the fisherman, the boat-builder and the stocking-knitter, was heard on a summer afternoon, or from the veille of a winter night when the dim crasset hung from the roof and the seaweed burned in the chimney. then the gathering of the vraic was a fete, and the lads and lasses footed it on the green or on the hard sand, to the chance flageolets of sportive seamen home from the war. this simple gaiety was heartiest at christmastide, when the yearly reunion of families took place; and because nearly everybody in jersey was "couzain" to his neighbour these gatherings were as patriarchal as they were festive. .......................... the new year of seventeen hundred and eighty-one had been ushered in by the last impulse of such festivities. the english cruisers lately in port had vanished up the channel; and at elizabeth castle, mont orgueil, the blue barracks and the hospital, three british regiments had taken up the dull round of duty again; so that by the fourth day a general lethargy, akin to content, had settled on the whole island. on the morning of the fifth day a little snow was lying upon the ground, but the sun rose strong and unclouded, the whiteness vanished, and there remained only a pleasant dampness which made sod and sand firm yet springy to the foot. as the day wore on, the air became more amiable still, and a delicate haze settled over the water and over the land, making softer to the eye house and hill and rock and sea. there was little life in the town of st. heliers, there were few people upon the beach; though now and then some one who had been praying beside a grave in the parish churchyard came to the railings and looked out upon the calm sea almost washing its foundations, and over the dark range of rocks, which, when the tide was out, showed like a vast gridiron blackened by fires. near by, some loitering sailors watched the yawlrigged fishing craft from holland, and the codfish-smelling cul-de-poule schooners of the great fishing company which exploited the far-off fields of gaspe in canada. st. heliers lay in st. aubin's bay, which, shaped like a horseshoe, had noirmont point for one end of the segment and the lofty town hill for another. at the foot of this hill, hugging it close, straggled the town. from the bare green promontory above might be seen two-thirds of the south coast of the island--to the right st. aubin's bay, to the left greve d'azette, with its fields of volcanic-looking rocks, and st. clement's bay beyond. than this no better place for a watchtower could be found; a perfect spot for the reflective idler and for the sailorman who, on land, must still be within smell and sound of the sea, and loves that place best which gives him widest prospect. this day a solitary figure was pacing backwards and forwards upon the cliff edge, stopping now to turn a telescope upon the water and now upon the town. it was a lad of not more than sixteen years, erect, wellpoised, having an air of self-reliance, even of command. yet it was a boyish figure too, and the face was very young, save for the eyes; these were frank but still sophisticated. the first time he looked towards the town he laughed outright, freely, spontaneously; threw his head back with merriment, and then glued his eye to the glass again. what he had seen was a girl of about five years of age with a man, in la rue d'egypte, near the old prison, even then called the vier prison. stooping, the man had kissed the child, and she, indignant, snatching the cap from his head, had thrown it into the stream running through the street. small wonder that the lad on the hill grinned, for the man who ran to rescue his hat from the stream was none other than the bailly of the island, next in importance to the lieutenant-governor. the lad could almost see the face of the child, its humorous anger, its wilful triumph, and also the enraged look of the bailly as he raked the stream with his long stick, tied with a sort of tassel of office. presently he saw the child turn at the call of a woman in the place du vier prison, who appeared to apologise to the bailly, busy now drying his recovered hat by whipping it through the air. the lad on the hill recognised the woman as the child's mother. this little episode over, he turned once more towards the sea, watching the sun of late afternoon fall upon the towers of elizabeth castle and the great rock out of which st. helier the hermit once chiselled his lofty home. he breathed deep and strong, and the carriage of his body was light, for he had a healthy enjoyment of all physical sensations and all the obvious drolleries of life. a broad sort of humour was written upon every feature; in the full, quizzical eye, in the width of cheekbone, in the broad mouth, and in the depth of the laugh, which, however, often ended in a sort of chuckle not entirely pleasant. it suggested a selfish enjoyment of the odd or the melodramatic side of other people's difficulties. at last the youth encased his telescope, and turned to descend the hill to the town. as he did so, a bell began to ring. from where he was he could look down into the vier marchi, or market-place, where stood the cohue royale and house of legislature. in the belfry of this courthouse, the bell was ringing to call the jurats together for a meeting of the states. a monstrous tin pan would have yielded as much assonance. walking down towards the vier marchi the lad gleefully recalled the humour of a wag who, some days before, had imitated the sound of the bell with the words: "chicane--chicane! chicane--chicane!" the native had, as he thought, suffered somewhat at the hands of the twelve jurats of the royal court, whom his vote had helped to elect, and this was his revenge--so successful that, for generations, when the bell called the states or the royal court together, it said in the ears of the jersey people--thus insistent is apt metaphor: "chicane--chicane! chicane--chicane!" as the lad came down to the town, trades-people whom he met touched their hats to him, and sailors and soldiers saluted respectfully. in this regard the bailly himself could not have fared better. it was not due to the fact that the youth came of an old jersey family, nor by reason that he was genial and handsome, but because he was a midshipman of the king's navy home on leave; and these were the days when england's sailors were more popular than her soldiers. he came out of the vier marchi into la grande rue, along the stream called the fauxbie flowing through it, till he passed under the archway of the vier prison, making towards the place where the child had snatched the hat from the head of the bailly. presently the door of a cottage opened, and the child came out, followed by her mother. the young gentleman touched his cap politely, for though the woman was not fashionably dressed, she was distinguished in appearance, with an air of remoteness which gave her a kind of agreeable mystery. "madame landresse--" said the young gentleman with deference. "monsieur d'avranche--" responded the lady softly, pausing. "did the bailly make a stir? i saw the affair from the hill, through my telescope," said young d'avranche, smiling. "my little daughter must have better manners," responded the lady, looking down at her child reprovingly yet lovingly. "or the bailly must--eh, madame?" replied d'avranche, and, stooping, he offered his hand to the child. glancing up inquiringly at her mother, she took it. he held hers in a clasp of good nature. the child was so demure, one could scarcely think her capable of tossing the bailly's hat into the stream; yet looking closely, there might be seen in her eyes a slumberous sort of fire, a touch of mystery. they were neither blue nor grey, but a mingling of both, growing to the most tender, greyish sort of violet. down through generations of huguenot refugees had passed sorrow and fighting and piety and love and occasional joy, until in the eyes of this child they all met, delicately vague, and with the wistfulness of the early morning of life. "what is your name, little lady?" asked d'avranche of the child. "guida, sir," she answered simply. "mine is philip. won't you call me philip?" she flashed a look at her mother, regarded him again, and then answered: "yes, philip--sir." d'avranche wanted to laugh, but the face of the child was sensitive and serious, and he only smiled. "say 'yes, philip', won't you?" he asked. "yes, philip," came the reply obediently. after a moment of speech with madame landresse, philip stooped to say good-bye to the child. "good-bye, guida." a queer, mischievous little smile flitted over her face--a second, and it was gone. "good-bye, sir--philip," she said, and they parted. her last words kept ringing in his ears as he made his way homeward. "good-bye, sir--philip" --the child's arrangement of words was odd and amusing, and at the same time suggested something more. "good-bye, sir philip," had a different meaning, though the words were the same. "sir philip--eh?" he said to himself, with a jerk of the head--"i'll be more than that some day." chapter ii the night came down with leisurely gloom. a dim starlight pervaded rather than shone in the sky; nature seemed somnolent and gravely meditative. it brooded as broods a man who is seeking his way through a labyrinth of ideas to a conclusion still evading him. this sense of cogitation enveloped land and sea, and was as tangible to feeling as human presence. at last the night seemed to wake from reverie. a movement, a thrill, ran through the spangled vault of dusk and sleep, and seemed to pass over the world, rousing the sea and the earth. there was no wind, apparently no breath of air, yet the leaves of the trees moved, the weather-vanes turned slightly, the animals in the byres roused themselves, and slumbering folk opening their eyes, turned over in their beds, and dropped into a troubled doze again. presently there came a long moaning sound from the tide, not loud but rather mysterious and distant--a plaint, a threatening, a warning, a prelude? a dull labourer, returning from late toil, felt it, and raised his head in a perturbed way, as though some one had brought him news of a far-off disaster. a midwife, hurrying to a lowly birth-chamber, shivered and gathered her mantle more closely about her. she looked up at the sky, she looked out over the sea, then she bent her head and said to herself that this would not be a good night, that ill-luck was in the air. "the mother or the child will die," she said to herself. a 'longshoreman, reeling home from deep potations, was conscious of it, and, turning round to the sea, snarled at it and said yah! in swaggering defiance. a young lad, wandering along the deserted street, heard it, began to tremble, and sat down on a block of stone beside the doorway of a baker's shop. he dropped his head on his arms and his chin on his knees, shutting out the sound and sobbing quietly. yesterday his mother had been buried; to-night his father's door had been closed in his face. he scarcely knew whether his being locked out was an accident or whether it was intended. he thought of the time when his father had ill-treated his mother and himself. that, however, had stopped at last, for the woman had threatened the royal court, and the man, having no wish to face its summary convictions, thereafter conducted himself towards them both with a morose indifference. the boy was called ranulph, a name which had passed to him through several generations of jersey forebears--ranulph delagarde. he was being taught the trade of ship-building in st. aubin's bay. he was not beyond fourteen years of age, though he looked more, so tall and straight and self-possessed was he. his tears having ceased soon, he began to think of what he was to do in the future. he would never go back to his father's house, or be dependent on him for aught. many plans came to his mind. he would learn his trade of ship-building, he would become a master-builder, then a shipowner, with fishing-vessels like the great company sending fleets to gaspe. at the moment when these ambitious plans had reached the highest point of imagination, the upper half of the door beside him opened suddenly, and he heard men's voices. he was about to rise and disappear, but the words of the men arrested him, and he cowered down beside the stone. one of the men was leaning on the half-door, speaking in french. "i tell you it can't go wrong. the pilot knows every crack in the coast. i left granville at three; rulle cour left chaussey at nine. if he lands safe, and the english troops ain't roused, he'll take the town and hold the island easy enough." "but the pilot, is he certain safe?" asked another voice. ranulph recognised it as that of the baker carcaud, who owned the shop. "olivier delagarde isn't so sure of him." olivier delagarde! the lad started. that was his father's name. he shrank as from a blow--his father was betraying jersey to the french! "of course, the pilot, he's all right," the frenchman answered the baker. "he was to have been hung here for murder. he got away, and now he's having his turn by fetching rullecour's wolves to eat up your greenbellies. by to-morrow at seven jersey 'll belong to king louis." "i've done my promise," rejoined carcaud the baker; "i've been to three of the guard-houses on st. clement's and grouville. in two the men are drunk as donkeys; in another they sleep like squids. rullecour he can march straight to the town and seize it--if he land safe. but will he stand by 's word to we? you know the saying: 'cadet roussel has two sons; one's a thief, t'other's a rogue.' there's two rullecours-rullecour before the catch and rullecour after!" "he'll be honest to us, man, or he'll be dead inside a week, that's all." "i'm to be connetable of st. heliers, and you're to be harbour-master-eh?" "naught else: you don't catch flies with vinegar. give us your hand-why, man, it's doggish cold." "cold hand, healthy heart. how many men will rullecour bring?" "two thousand; mostly conscripts and devil's beauties from granville and st. malo gaols." "any signals yet?" "two--from chaussey at five o'clock. rullecour 'll try to land at gorey. come, let's be off. delagarde's there now." the boy stiffened with horror--his father was a traitor! the thought pierced his brain like a hot iron. he must prevent this crime, and warn the governor. he prepared to steal away. fortunately the back of the man's head was towards him. carcaud laughed a low, malicious laugh as he replied to the frenchman. "trust the quiet delagarde! there's nothing worse nor still waters. he'll do his trick, and he'll have his share if the rest suck their thumbs. he doesn't wait for roasted larks to drop into his mouth--what's that!" it was ranulph stealing away. in an instant the two men were on him, and a hand was clapped to his mouth. in another minute he was bound, thrown onto the stone floor of the bakehouse, his head striking, and he lost consciousness. when he came to himself, there was absolute silence round him-deathly, oppressive silence. at first he was dazed, but at length all that had happened came back to him. where was he now? his feet were free; he began to move them about. he remembered that he had been flung on the stone floor of the bakeroom. this place sounded hollow underneath--it certainly was not the bakeroom. he rolled over and over. presently he touched a wall--it was stone. he drew himself up to a sitting posture, but his head struck a curved stone ceiling. then he swung round and moved his foot along the wall--it touched iron. he felt farther with his foot-something clicked. now he understood; he was in the oven of the bakehouse, with his hands bound. he began to think of means of escape. the iron door had no inside latch. there was a small damper covering a barred hole, through which perhaps he might be able to get a hand, if only it were free. he turned round so that his fingers might feel the grated opening. the edge of the little bars was sharp. he placed the strap binding his wrists against these sharp edges, and drew his arms up and down, a difficult and painful business. the iron cut his hands and wrists at first, so awkward was the movement. but, steeling himself, he kept on steadily. at last the straps fell apart, and his hands were free. with difficulty he thrust one through the bars. his fingers could just lift the latch. now the door creaked on its hinges, and in a moment he was out on the stone flags of the bakeroom. hurrying through an unlocked passage into the shop, he felt his way to the street door, but it was securely fastened. the windows? he tried them both, one on either side, but while he could free the stout wooden shutters on the inside, a heavy iron bar secured them without, and it was impossible to open them. feverish with anxiety, he sat down on the low counter, with his hands between his knees, and tried to think what to do. in the numb hopelessness of the moment he became very quiet. his mind was confused, but his senses were alert; he was in a kind of dream, yet he was acutely conscious of the smell of new-made bread. it pervaded the air of the place; it somehow crept into his brain and his being, so that, as long as he might live, the smell of new-made bread would fetch back upon him the nervous shiver and numbness of this hour of danger. as he waited, he heard a noise outside, a clac-clac! clac-clac! which seemed to be echoed back from the wood and stone of the houses in the street, and then to be lifted up and carried away over the roofs and out to sea---clac-clac! clac-clac! it was not the tap of a blind man's staff--at first he thought it might be; it was not a donkey's foot on the cobbles; it was not the broom-sticks of the witches of st. clement's bay, for the rattle was below in the street, and the broom-stick rattle is heard only on the roofs as the witches fly across country from rocbert to bonne nuit bay. this clac-clac came from the sabots of some nightfarer. should he make a noise and attract the attention of the passer-by? no, that would not do. it might be some one who would wish to know whys and wherefores. he must, of course, do his duty to his country, but he must save his father too. bad as the man was, he must save him, though, no matter what happened, he must give the alarm. his reflections tortured him. why had he not stopped the nightfarer? even as these thoughts passed through the lad's mind, the clac-clac had faded away into the murmur of the stream flowing by the rue d'egypte to the sea, and almost beneath his feet. there flashed on him at that instant what little guida landresse had said a few days before as she lay down beside this very stream, and watched the water wimpling by. trailing her fingers through it dreamily, the child had said to him: "ro, won't it never come back?" she always called him "ro," because when beginning to talk she could not say ranulph. ro, won't it never come back? but while yet he recalled the words, another sound mingled again with the stream-clac-clac! clac-clac! suddenly it came to him who was the wearer of the sabots making this peculiar clatter in the night. it was dormy jamais, the man who never slept. for two years the clac-clac of dormy jamais's sabots had not been heard in the streets of st. heliers--he had been wandering in france, a daft pilgrim. ranulph remembered how these sabots used to pass and repass the doorway of his own home. it was said that while dormy jamais paced the streets there was no need of guard or watchman. many a time had ranulph shared his supper with the poor beganne whose origin no one knew, whose real name had long since dropped into oblivion. the rattle of the sabots came nearer, the footsteps were now in front of the window. even as ranulph was about to knock and call the poor vagrant's name, the clac-clac stopped, and then there came a sniffing at the shutters as a dog sniffs at the door of a larder. following the sniffing came a guttural noise of emptiness and desire. now there was no mistake; it was the half-witted fellow beyond all doubt, and he could help him--dormy jamais should help him: he should go and warn the governor and the soldiers at the hospital, while he himself would speed to gorey in search of his father. he would alarm the regiment there at the same time. he knocked and shouted. dormy jamais, frightened, jumped back into the street. ranulph called again, and yet again, and now at last dormy recognised the voice. with a growl of mingled reassurance and hunger, he lifted down the iron bar from the shutters. in a moment ranulph was outside with two loaves of bread, which he put into dormy jamais's arms. the daft one whinnied with delight. "what's o'clock, bread-man?" he asked with a chuckle. ranulph gripped his shoulders. "see, dormy jamais, i want you to go to the governor's house at la motte, and tell them that the french are coming, that they're landing at gorey now. then to the hospital and tell the sentry there. go, dormy--allez kedainne!" dormy jamais tore at a loaf with his teeth, and crammed a huge crust into his mouth. "come, tell me, will you go, dormy?" the lad asked impatiently. dormy jamais nodded his head, grunted, and, turning on his heel with ranulph, clattered up the street. the lad sprang ahead of him, and ran swiftly up the rue d'egypte, into the vier marchi, and on over the town hill along the road to grouville. chapter iii since the days of henry iii of england the hawk of war that broods in france has hovered along that narrow strip of sea dividing the island of jersey from the duchy of normandy. eight times has it descended, and eight times has it hurried back with broken pinion. among these truculent invasions two stand out boldly: the spirited and gallant attack by bertrand du guesclin, constable of france; and the freebooting adventure of rullecour, with his motley following of gentlemen and criminals. rullecour it was, soldier of fortune, gambler, ruffian, and embezzler, to whom the king of france had secretly given the mission to conquer the unconquerable little island. from the chaussey isles the filibuster saw the signal light which the traitor olivier delagarde had set upon the heights of le couperon, where, ages ago, caesar built fires to summon from gaul his devouring legions. all was propitious for the attack. there was no moon--only a meagre starlight when they set forth from chaussey. the journey was made in little more than an hour, and rullecour himself was among the first to see the shores of jersey loom darkly in front. beside him stood the murderous pilot who was leading in the expedition, the colleague of olivier delagarde. presently the pilot gave an exclamation of surprise and anxiety--the tides and currents were bearing them away from the intended landingplace. it was now almost low water, and instead of an immediate shore, there lay before them a vast field of scarred rocks, dimly seen. he gave the signal to lay-to, and himself took the bearings. the tide was going out rapidly, disclosing reefs on either hand. he drew in carefully to the right of the rock known as l'echiquelez, up through a passage scarce wide enough for canoes, and to roque platte, the south-eastern projection of the island. you may range the seas from the yugon strait to the erebus volcano, and you will find no such landing-place for imps or men as that field of rocks on the southeast corner of jersey called, with a malicious irony, the bane des violets. the great rocks la coniere, la longy, le gros etac, le teton, and the petite sambiere, rise up like volcanic monuments from a floor of lava and trailing vraic, which at half-tide makes the sea a tender mauve and violet. the passages of safety between these ranges of reef are but narrow at high tide; at half-tide, when the currents are changing most, the violet field becomes the floor of a vast mortuary chapel for unknowing mariners. a battery of four guns defended the post on the landward side of this bank of the heavenly name. its guards were asleep or in their cups. they yielded, without resistance, to the foremost of the invaders. but here rullecour and his pilot, looking back upon the way they had come, saw the currents driving the transport boats hither and thither in confusion. jersey was not to be conquered without opposition--no army of defence was abroad, but the elements roused themselves and furiously attacked the fleet. battalions unable to land drifted back with the tides to granville, whence they had come. boats containing the heavy ammunition and a regiment of conscripts were battered upon the rocks, and hundreds of the invaders found an unquiet grave upon the banc des violets. presently the traitor delagarde arrived and was welcomed warmly by rullecour. the night wore on, and at last the remaining legions were landed. a force was left behind to guard la roque platte, and then the journey across country to the sleeping town began. with silent, drowsing batteries in front and on either side of them, the french troops advanced, the marshes of samares and the sea on their left, churches and manor houses on their right, all silent. not yet had a blow been struck for the honour of this land and of the kingdom. but a blind injustice was, in its own way, doing the work of justice. on the march, delagarde, suspecting treachery to himself, not without reason, required of rullecour guarantee for the fulfilment of his pledge to make him vicomte of the island when victory should be theirs. rullecour, however, had also promised the post to a reckless young officer, the comte de tournay, of the house of vaufontaine, who, under the assumed name of yves savary dit detricand, marched with him. rullecour answered delagarde churlishly, and would say nothing till the town was taken--the ecrivain must wait. but delagarde had been drinking, he was in a mood to be reckless; he would not wait, he demanded an immediate pledge. "by and by, my doubting thomas," said rullecour. "no, now, by the blood of peter!" answered delagarde, laying a hand upon his sword. the french leader called a sergeant to arrest him. delagarde instantly drew his sword and attacked rullecour, but was cut down from behind by the scimitar of a swaggering turk, who had joined the expedition as aidede-camp to the filibustering general, tempted thereto by promises of a harem of the choicest jersey ladies, well worthy of this cousin of the emperor of morocco. the invaders left delagarde lying where he fell. what followed this oblique retribution could satisfy no ordinary logic, nor did it meet the demands of poetic justice. for, as a company of soldiers from grouville, alarmed out of sleep by a distracted youth, hurried towards st. heliers, they found delagarde lying by the roadside, and they misunderstood what had happened. stooping over him an officer said pityingly: "see--he got this wound fighting the french!" with the soldiers was the youth who had warned them. he ran forward with a cry, and knelt beside the wounded man. he had no tears, he had no sorrow. he was only sick and dumb, and he trembled with misery as he lifted up his father's head. the eyes of olivier delagarde opened. "ranulph--they've killed--me," gasped the stricken man feebly, and his head fell back. an officer touched the youth's arm. "he is gone," said he. "don't fret, lad, he died fighting for his country." the lad made no reply, and the soldiers hurried on towards the town. he died fighting for his country! so that was to be the legend, ranulph meditated: his father was to have a glorious memory, while he himself knew how vile the man was. one thing however: he was glad that olivier delagarde was dead. how strangely had things happened! he had come to stay a traitor in his crime, and here he found a martyr. but was not he himself likewise a traitor? ought not he to have alarmed the town first before he tried to find his father? had dormy jamais warned the governor? clearly not, or the town bells would be ringing and the islanders giving battle. what would the world think of him! well, what was the use of fretting here? he would go on to the town, help to fight the french, and die that would be the best thing. he knelt, and unclasped his father's fingers from the handle of the sword. the steel was cold, it made him shiver. he had no farewell to make. he looked out to sea. the tide would come and carry his father's body out, perhaps-far out, and sink it in the deepest depths. if not that, then the people would bury olivier delagarde as a patriot. he determined that he himself would not live to see such mockery. as he sped along towards the town he asked himself why nobody suspected the traitor. one reason for it occurred to him: his father, as the whole island knew, had a fishing-hut at gorey. they would imagine him on the way to it when he met the french, for he often spent the night there. he himself had told his tale to the soldiers: how he had heard the baker and the frenchman talking at the shop in the rue d'egypte. yes, but suppose the french were driven out, and the baker taken prisoner and should reveal his father's complicity! and suppose people asked why he himself did not go at once to the hospital barracks in the town and to the governor, and afterwards to gorey? these were direful imaginings. he felt that it was no use; that the lie could not go on concerning his father. the world would know; the one thing left for him was to die. he was only a boy, but he could fight. had not young philip d'avranche; the midshipman, been in deadly action many times? he was nearly as old as philip d'avranche--yes, he would fight, and, fighting, he would die. to live as the son of such a father was too pitiless a shame. he ran forward, but a weakness was on him; he was very hungry and thirsty-and the sword was heavy. presently, as he went, he saw a stone well near a cottage by the roadside. on a ledge of the well stood a bucket of water. he tilted the bucket and drank. he would have liked to ask for bread at the cottage-door, but he said to himself, why should he eat, for was he not going to die? yet why should he not eat, even if he were going to die? he turned his head wistfully, he was so faint with hunger. the force driving him on, however, was greater than hunger--he ran harder. . . . but undoubtedly the sword was heavy! chapter iv in the vier marchi the french flag was flying, french troops occupied it, french sentries guarded the five streets entering into it. rullecour, the french adventurer, held the lieutenant-governor of the isle captive in the cohue royale; and by threats of fire and pillage thought to force capitulation. for his final argument he took the governor to the doorway, and showed him two hundred soldiers with lighted torches ready to fire the town. when the french soldiers first entered the vier marchi there was dormy jamais on the roof of the cohue royale, calmly munching his bread. when he saw rullecour and the governor appear, he chuckled to himself, and said, in jersey patois: "i vaut mux alouonyi l'bras que l'co," which is to say: it is better to stretch the arm than the neck. the governor would have done more wisely, he thought, to believe the poor beganne, and to have risen earlier. dormy jamais had a poor opinion of a governor who slept. he himself was not a governor, yet was he not always awake? he had gone before dawn to the governor's house, had knocked, had given ranulph delagarde's message, had been called a dirty buzard, and been sent away by the crusty, incredulous servant. then he had gone to the hospital barracks, was there iniquitously called a lousy toad, and had been driven off with his quartern loaf, muttering through the dough the island proverb "while the mariner swigs the tide rises." had the governor remained as cool as the poor vagrant, he would not have shrunk at the sight of the incendiaries, yielded to threats, and signed the capitulation of the island. but that capitulation being signed, and notice of it sent to the british troops, with orders to surrender and bring their arms to the cohue royale, it was not cordially received by the officers in command. "je ne comprends pas le francais," said captain mulcaster, at elizabeth castle, as he put the letter into his pocket unread. "the english governor will be hanged, and the french will burn the town," responded the envoy. "let them begin to hang and burn and be damned, for i'll not surrender the castle or the british flag so long as i've a man to defend it, to please anybody!" answered mulcaster. "we shall return in numbers," said the frenchman, threateningly. "i shall be delighted: we shall have the more to kill," mulcaster replied. then the captive lieutenant-governor was sent to major peirson at the head of his troops on the mont es pendus, with counsel to surrender. "sir," said he, "this has been a very sudden surprise, for i was made prisoner before i was out of my bed this morning." "sir," replied peirson, the young hero of twenty-four, who achieved death and glory between a sunrise and a noontide, "give me leave to tell you that the 78th regiment has not yet been the least surprised." from elizabeth castle came defiance and cannonade, driving back rullecour and his filibusters to the cohue royale: from mont orgueil, from the hospital, from st. peter's came the english regiments; from the other parishes swarmed the militia, all eager to recover their beloved vier marchi. two companies of light infantry, leaving the mont es pendus, stole round the town and placed themselves behind the invaders on the town hill; the rest marched direct upon the enemy. part went by the grande rue, and part by the rue d'driere, converging to the point of attack; and as the light infantry came down from the hill by the rue des tres pigeons, peirson entered the vier marchi by the route es couochons. on one side of the square, where the cohue royale made a wall to fight against, were the french. radiating from this were five streets and passages like the spokes of a wheel, and from these now poured the defenders of the isle. a volley came from the cohue royale, then another, and another. the place was small: friend and foe were crowded upon each other. the fighting became at once a hand-to-hand encounter. cannon were useless, gun-carriages overturned. here a drummer fell wounded, but continued beating his drum to the last; there a glasgow soldier struggled with a french officer for the flag of the invaders; yonder a handful of malouins doggedly held the foot of la pyramide, until every one was cut down by overpowering numbers of british and jersiais. the british leader was conspicuous upon his horse. shot after shot was fired at him. suddenly he gave a cry, reeled in his saddle, and sank, mortally wounded, into the arms of a brother officer. for a moment his men fell back. in the midst of the deadly turmoil a youth ran forward from a group of combatants, caught the bridle of the horse from which peirson had fallen, mounted, and, brandishing a short sword, called upon his dismayed and wavering followers to advance; which they instantly did with fury and courage. it was midshipman philip d'avranche. twenty muskets were discharged at him. one bullet cut the coat on his shoulder, another grazed the back of his hand, a third scarred the pommel of the saddle, and still another wounded his horse. again and again the english called upon him to dismount, for he was made a target, but he refused, until at last the horse was shot under him. then once more he joined in the hand-to-hand encounter. windows near the ground, such as were not shattered, were broken by bullets. cannon-balls embedded themselves in the masonry and the heavy doorways. the upper windows were safe, however: the shots did not range so high. at one of these, over a watchmaker's shop, a little girl was to be seen, looking down with eager interest. presently an old man came in view and led her away. a few minutes of fierce struggle passed, and then at another window on the floor below the child appeared again. she saw a youth with a sword hurrying towards the cohue royale from a tangled mass of combatants. as he ran, a british soldier fell in front of him. the youth dropped the sword and grasped the dead man's musket. the child clapped her hands on the window. "it's ro--it's ro!" she cried, and disappeared again. "ro," with white face, hatless, coatless, pushed on through the melee. rullecour, the now disheartened french general, stood on the steps of the cohue royale. with a vulgar cruelty and cowardice he was holding the governor by the arm, hoping thereby to protect his own person from the british fire. here was what the lad had been trying for--the sight of this man rullecour. there was one small clear space between the english and the french, where stood a gun-carriage. he ran to it, leaned the musket on the gun, and, regardless of the shots fired at him, took aim steadily. a french bullet struck the wooden wheel of the carriage, and a splinter gashed his cheek. he did not move, but took sight again, and fired. rullecour fell, shot through the jaw. a cry of fury and dismay went up from the french at the loss of their leader, a shout of triumph from the british. the frenchmen had had enough. they broke and ran. some rushed for doorways and threw themselves within, many scurried into the rue des tres pigeons, others madly fought their way into morier lane. at this moment the door of the watchmaker's shop opened and the little girl who had been seen at the window ran into the square, calling out: "ro! ro!" it was guida landresse. among the french flying for refuge was the garish turk, rullecour's ally. suddenly the now frightened, crying child got into his path and tripped him up. wild with rage he made a stroke at her, but at that instant his scimitar was struck aside by a youth covered with the smoke and grime of battle. he caught up the child to his arms, and hurried with her through the melee to the watchmaker's doorway. there stood a terror-stricken woman--madame landresse, who had just made her way into the square. placing the child, in her arms, philip d'avranche staggered inside the house, faint and bleeding from a wound in the shoulder. the battle of jersey was over. "ah bah!" said dormy jamais from the roof of the cohue royale; "now i'll toll the bell for that achocre of a frenchman. then i'll finish my supper." poising a half-loaf of bread on the ledge of the roof, he began to slowly toll the cracked bell at his hand for rullecour the filibuster. the bell clanged out: chicane-chicane! chicane-chicane! another bell answered from the church by the square, a deep, mournful note. it was tolling for peirson and his dead comrades. against the statue in the vier marchi leaned ranulph delagarde. an officer came up and held out a hand to him. "your shot ended the business," said he. "you're a brave fellow. what is your name?" "ranulph delagarde, sir." "delagarde--eh? then well done, delagardes! they say your father was the first man killed. we won't forget that, my lad." sinking down upon the base of the statue, ranulph did not stir or reply, and the officer, thinking he was grieving for his father, left him alone. eleven years after chapter v the king of france was no longer sending adventurers to capture the outposts of england. he was rather, in despair, beginning to wind in again the coil of disaster which had spun out through the helpless fingers of neckar, calonne, brienne and the rest, and was in the end to bind his own hands for the guillotine. the isle of jersey, like a scout upon the borders of a foeman's country, looked out over st. michael's basin to those provinces where the war of the vendee was soon to strike france from within, while england, and presently all europe, should strike her from without. war, or the apprehension of war, was in the air. the people of the little isle, living always within the influence of natural wonder and the power of the elements, were deeply superstitious; and as news of dark deeds done in paris crept across from carteret or st. malo, as men-of-war anchored in the tide-way, and english troops, against the hour of trouble, came, transport after transport, into the harbour of st. heliers, they began to see visions and dream dreams. one peasant heard the witches singing a chorus of carnage at rocbert; another saw, towards the minquiers, a great army like a mirage upon the sea; others declared that certain french refugees in the island had the evil eye and bewitched their cattle; and a woman, wild with grief because her child had died of a sudden sickness, meeting a little frenchman, the chevalier du champsavoys, in the rue des tres pigeons, thrust at his face with her knitting-needle, and then, protestant though she was, made the sacred sign, as though to defeat the evil eye. this superstition and fanaticism so strong in the populace now and then burst forth in untamable fury and riot. so that when, on the sixteenth of december 1792, the gay morning was suddenly overcast, and a black curtain was drawn over the bright sun, the people of jersey, working in the fields, vraicking among the rocks, or knitting in their doorways, stood aghast, and knew not what was upon them. some began to say the lord's prayer, some in superstitious terror ran to the secret hole in the wall, to the chimney, or to the bedstead, or dug up the earthen floor, to find the stocking full of notes and gold, which might, perchance, come with them safe through any cataclysm, or start them again in business in another world. some began fearfully to sing hymns, and a few to swear freely. these latter were chiefly carters, whose salutations to each other were mainly oaths, because of the extreme narrowness of the island roads, and sailors to whom profanity was as daily bread. in st. heliers, after the first stupefaction, people poured into the streets. they gathered most where met the rue d'driere and the rue d'egypte. here stood the old prison, and the spot was called the place du vier prison. men and women with breakfast still in their mouths mumbled their terror to each other. a lobster-woman shrieking that the day of judgment was come, instinctively straightened her cap, smoothed out her dress of molleton, and put on her sabots. a carpenter, hearing her terrified exclamations, put on his sabots also, stooped whimpering to the stream running from the rue d'egypte, and began to wash his face. a dozen of his neighbours did the same. some of the women, however, went on knitting hard, as they gabbled prayers and looked at the fast-blackening sun. knitting was to jersey women, like breathing or tale-bearing, life itself. with their eyes closing upon earth they would have gone on knitting and dropped no stitches. a dusk came down like that over pompeii and herculaneum. the tragedy of fear went hand in hand with burlesque commonplace. the grey stone walls of the houses grew darker and darker, and seemed to close in on the dumfounded, hysterical crowd. here some one was shouting command to imaginary militia; there an aged crone was offering, without price, simnels and black butter, as a sort of propitiation for an imperfect past; and from a window a notorious evil-liver was frenziedly crying that she had heard the devil and his rocbert witches revelling in the prison dungeons the night before. thereupon a long-haired fanatic, once a barber, with a gift for mad preaching, sprang upon the pompe des brigands, and declaring that the last day was come, shrieked: "the spirit of the lord is upon me! he hath sent me to proclaim liberty to the captives, and the opening of the prison to them that are bound!" some one thrust into his hand a torch. he waved it to and fro in his wild harangue; he threw up his arms towards the ominous gloom, and with blatant fury ordered open the prison doors. other torches and candles appeared, and the mob trembled to and fro in delirium. "the prison! open the vier prison! break down the doors! gatd'en'ale-drive out the devils! free the prisoners--the poor vauriens!" the crowd shouted, rushing forward with sticks and weapons. the prison arched the street as temple bar once spanned the strand. they crowded under the archway, overpowered the terror-stricken jailer, and, battering open the door in frenzy, called the inmates forth. they looked to see issue some sailor seized for whistling of a sabbath, some profane peasant who had presumed to wear pattens in church, some profaner peasant who had not doffed his hat to the connetable, or some slip-shod militiaman who had gone to parade in his sabots, thereby offending the red-robed dignity of the royal court. instead, there appeared a little frenchman of the most refined and unusual appearance. the blue cloth of his coat set off the extreme paleness of a small but serene face and high round forehead. the hair, a beautiful silver grey which time only had powdered, was tied in a queue behind. the little gentleman's hand was as thin and fine as a lady's, his shoulders were narrow and slightly stooped, his eye was eloquent and benign. his dress was amazingly neat, but showed constant brushing and signs of the friendly repairing needle. the whole impression was that of a man whom a whiff of wind would blow away; with the body of an ascetic and the simplicity of a child. the face had some particular sort of wisdom, difficult to define and impossible to imitate. he held in his hand a tiny cane of the sort carried at the court of louis quinze. louis capet himself had given it to him; and you might have had the life of the little gentleman, but not this cane with the tiny golden bust of his unhappy monarch. he stood on the steps of the prison and looked serenely on the muttering, excited crowd. "i fear there is a mistake," said he, coughing a little into his fingers. "you do not seek me. i--i have no claim upon your kindness; i am only the chevalier orvilliers du champsavoys de beaumanoir." for a moment the mob had been stayed in amazement by this small, rare creature stepping from the doorway, like a porcelain coloured figure from some dusky wood in a painting by claude. in the instant's pause the chevalier orvilliers du champsavoys de beaumanoir took from his pocket a timepiece and glanced at it, then looked over the heads of the crowd towards the hooded sun, which now, a little, was showing its face again. "it was due at eight, less seven minutes," said he; "clear sun again was set for ten minutes past. it is now upon the stroke of the hour." he seemed in no way concerned with the swaying crowd before him-undoubtedly they wanted naught of him, and therefore he did not take their presence seriously; but, of an inquiring mind, he was absorbed in the eclipse. "he's a french sorcerer! he has the evil eye! away with him to the sea!" shouted the fanatical preacher from the pompe des brigands. "it's a witch turned into a man!" cried a drunken woman from her window. "give him the wheel of fire at the blacksmith's forge." "that's it! gad'rabotin--the wheel of fire'll turn him back to a hag again!" the little gentleman protested, but they seized him and dragged him from the steps. tossed like a ball, so light was he, he grasped the goldheaded cane as one might cling to life, and declared that he was no witch, but a poor french exile, arrested the night before for being abroad after nine o'clock, against the orders of the royal court. many of the crowd knew him well enough by sight, but they were too delirious to act with intelligence now. the dark cloud was lifting a little from the sun, and dread of the judgment day was declining; but as the pendulum swung back towards normal life again, it carried with it the one virulent and common prejudice of the country--radical hatred of the french--which often slumbered but never died. the wife of an oyster-fisher from rozel bay, who lived in hourly enmity with the oyster-fishers of carteret, gashed his cheek with the shell of an ormer. a potato-digger from grouville parish struck at his head with a hoe, for the granvillais had crossed the strait to the island the year before, to work in the harvest fields for a lesser wage than the jersiais, and this little french gentleman must be held responsible for that. the weapon missed the chevalier, but laid low a centenier, who, though a municipal officer, had in the excitement lost his head like his neighbours. this but increased the rage against the foreigner, and was another crime to lay to his charge. a smuggler thereupon kicked him in the side. at that moment there came a cry of indignation from a girl at an upper window of the place. the chevalier evidently knew her, for even in his hard case he smiled; and then he heard another voice ring out over the heads of the crowd, strong, angry, determined. from the rue d'driere a tall athletic man was hurrying. he had on his shoulders a workman's han basket, from which peeped a ship-builder's tools. seeing the chevalier's danger, he dropped his tool-basket through the open window of a house and forced his way through the crowd, roughly knocking from under them the feet of two or three ruffians who opposed him. he reproached the crowd, he berated them, he handled them fiercely. by a dexterous strength he caught the little gentleman up in his arms, and, driving straight on to the open door of the smithy, placed him inside, then blocked the passage with his own body. it was a strange picture: the preacher in an ecstasy haranguing the foolish rabble, who now realised, with an unbecoming joy, that the last day was yet to face; the gaping, empty prison; the open windows crowded with excited faces; the church bell from the vier marchi ringing an alarm; norman lethargy roused to froth and fury: one strong man holding two hundred back! above them all, at a hus in the gable of a thatched cottage, stood the girl whom the chevalier had recognised, anxiously watching the affray. she was leaning across the lower closed half of the door, her hands in apprehensive excitement clasping her cheeks. the eyes were bewildered, and, though alive with pain, watched the scene below with unwavering intensity. like all mobs this one had no reason, no sense. they were baulked in their malign intentions, and this man, maitre ranulph delagarde, was the cause of it--that was all they knew. a stone was thrown at delagarde as he stood in the doorway, but it missed him. "oh-oh-oh!" the girl exclaimed, shrinking. "o shame! o you cowards!" she added, her hands now indignantly beating on the hus. three or four men rushed forward on ranulph. he hurled them back. others came on with weapons. the girl fled for an instant, then reappeared with a musket, as the people were crowding in on delagarde with threats and execrations. "stop! stop!" cried the girl from above, as ranulph seized a blacksmith's hammer to meet the onset. "stop, or i'll fire!" she called again, and she aimed her musket at the foremost assailants. every face turned in her direction, for her voice had rung out clear as music. for an instant there was silence--the levelled musket had a deadly look, and the girl seemed determined. her fingers, her whole body, trembled; but there was no mistaking the strong will, the indignant purpose. all at once in the pause another sound was heard. it was a quick tramp, tramp, tramp! and suddenly under the prison archway came running an officer of the king's navy with a company of sailors. the officer, with drawn sword, his men following with cutlasses, drove a way through the mob, who scattered before them like sheep. delagarde threw aside his hammer, and saluted the officer. the little chevalier made a formal bow, and hastened to say that he was not at all hurt. with a droll composure he offered snuff to the officer, who declined politely. turning to the window where the girl stood, the newcomer saluted with confident gallantry. "why, it's little guida landresse!" he said under his breath--"i'd know her anywhere. death and beauty, what a face!" then he turned to ranulph in recognition. "ranulph delagarde, eh?" said he good-humouredly. "you've forgotten me, i see. i'm philip d'avranche, of the narcissus." ranulph had forgotten. the slight lad philip had grown bronzed, and stouter of frame. in the eleven years since they had been together at the battle of jersey, events, travel, and responsibility had altered him vastly. ranulph had changed only in growing very tall and athletic and strong; the look of him was still that of the norman lad of the isle, though the power and intelligence of his face were unusual. the girl in the cottage doorway had not forgotten at all. the words that d'avranche had said to her years before, when she was a child, came to her mind: "my name is philip; call me philip." the recollection of that day when she snatched off the bailly's hat brought a smile to her lips now, so quickly were her feelings moved one way or another. then she grew suddenly serious, for the memory of the hour when he saved her from the scimitar of the turk came to her, and her heart throbbed hotly. but she smiled again, though more gently and a little wistfully now. philip d'avranche looked up towards her once more, and returned her smile. then he addressed the awed crowd. he did not spare his language; he unconsciously used an oath or two. he ordered them off to their homes. when they hesitated (for they were slow to acknowledge any authority save their own sacred royal court) the sailors advanced on them with drawn cutlasses, and a moment later the place du vier prison was clear. leaving a half-dozen sailors on guard till the town corps should arrive, d'avranche prepared to march, and turned to delagarde. "you've done me a good turn, monsieur d'avranche," said ranulph. "there was a time you called me philip," said d'avranche, smiling. "we were lads together." "it's different now," answered delagarde. "nothing is different at all, of course," returned d'avranche carelessly, yet with the slightest touch of condescension, as he held out his hand. turning to the chevalier, he said: "monsieur, i congratulate you on having such a champion"--with a motion towards ranulph. "and you, monsieur, on your brave protector"--he again saluted the girl at the window above. "i am the obliged and humble servant of monsieur, and monsieur," responded the little gentleman, turning from one to the other with a courtly bow, the three-cornered hat under his arm, the right foot forward, the thin fingers making a graceful salutation. "but i--i think --i really think i must go back to prison. i was not formally set free. i was out last night beyond the hour set by the court. i lost my way, and--" "not a bit of it," d'avranche interrupted. "the centeniers are too free with their jailing here. i'll be guarantee for you, monsieur." he turned to go. the little man shook his head dubiously. "but, as a point of honour, i really think--" d'avranche laughed. "as a point of honour, i think you ought to breakfast. a la bonne heure, monsieur le chevalier!" he turned again to the cottage window. the girl was still there. the darkness over the sun was withdrawn, and now the clear light began to spread itself abroad. it was like a second dawn after a painful night. it tinged the face of the girl; it burnished the wonderful red-brown hair falling loosely and lightly over her forehead; it gave her beauty a touch of luxuriance. d'avranche thrilled at the sight of her. "it's a beautiful face," he said to himself as their eyes met and he saluted once more. ranulph had seen the glances passing between the two, and he winced. he remembered how, eleven years ago, philip d'avranche had saved the girl from death. it galled him that then and now this young gallant should step in and take the game out of his hands--he was sure that himself alone could have mastered this crowd. "monsieur--monsieur le chevalier!" the girl called down from the window, "grandpethe says you must breakfast with us. oh, but come you must, or we shall be offended!" she added, as champsavoys shook his head in hesitation and glanced towards the prison. "as a point of honour--" the little man still persisted, lightly touching his breast with the louis quinze cane, and taking a step towards the sombre prison archway. but ranulph interfered, drew him gently inside the cottage, and, standing in the doorway, said to some one within: "may i come in also, sieur de mauprat?" above the pleasant welcome of a quavering voice came another, soft and clear, in pure french: "thou art always welcome, without asking, as thou knowest, ro." "then i'll go and fetch my tool-basket first," ranulph said cheerily, his heart beating more quickly, and, turning, he walked across the place. chapter vi the cottage in which guida lived at the place du vier prison was in jocund contrast to the dungeon from which the chevalier orvilliers du champsavoys de beaumanoir had complacently issued. even in the hot summer the prison walls dripped moisture, for the mortar had been made of wet sea-sand, which never dried, and beneath the gloomy tenement of crime a dark stream flowed to the sea. but the walls of the cottage were dry, for, many years before, guida's mother had herself seen it built from cellar-rock to the linked initials over the doorway, stone by stone, and every corner of it was as free from damp as the mielles stretching in sandy desolation behind to the mont es pendus, where the law had its way with the necks of criminals. in early childhood madame landresse had come with her father into exile from the sunniest valley in the hills of chambery, where flowers and trees and sunshine had been her life. here, in the midst of blank and grim stone houses, her heart travelled back to the chateau where she lived before the storm of persecution drove her forth; and she spent her heart and her days in making this cottage, upon the western border of st. heliers, a delight to the quiet eye. the people of the island had been good to her and her dead husband during the two short years of their married life, and had caused her to love the land which necessity made her home. her child was brought up after the fashion of the better class of jersey children, wore what they wore, ate what they ate, lived as they lived. she spoke the country patois in the daily life, teaching it to guida at the same time that she taught her pure french and good english, which she herself had learned as a child, and cultivated later here. she had done all in her power to make guida jersiaise in instinct and habit, and to beget in her a contented disposition. there could be no future for her daughter outside this little green oasis of exile, she thought. not that she lacked ambition, but in the circumstances she felt that ambition could yield but one harvest to her child, which was marriage. she herself had married a poor man, a master builder of ships, like maitre ranulph delagarde, but she had been very happy while he lived. her husband had come of an ancient jersey family, who were in normandy before the conqueror was born; a man of genius almost in his craft, but scarcely a gentleman according to the standard of her father, the distinguished exile and now retired watchmaker. if guida should chance to be as fortunate as herself, she could ask no more. she had watched the child anxiously, for the impulses of guida's temperament now and then broke forth in indignation as wild as her tears and in tears as wild as her laughter. as the girl grew in health and stature, she tried, tenderly, strenuously, to discipline the sensitive nature, bursting her heart with grief at times because she knew that these high feelings and delicate powers came through a long line of ancestral tendencies, as indestructible as perilous and joyous. four things were always apparent in the girl's character: sympathy with suffering, kindness without partiality, a love of nature, and an intense candour. not a stray cat wandering into the place du vier prison but found an asylum in the garden behind the cottage. not a dog hungry for a bone, stopping at guida's door, but was sure of one from a hiding-place in the hawthorn hedge of the garden. every morning you might have seen the birds in fluttering, chirping groups upon the may-tree or the lilacbushes, waiting for the tiny snow-storm of bread to fall from her hand. was he good or bad, ragged or neat, honest or a thief, not a deserting sailor or a homeless lad, halting at the cottage, but was fed from the girl's private larder behind the straw beehives among the sweet lavender and the gooseberry-bushes. no matter how rough the vagrant, the sincerity and pure impulse of the child seemed to throw round him a sunshine of decency and respect. the garden behind the house was the girl's eden. she had planted upon the hawthorn hedge the crimson monthly rose, the fuchsia, and the jonquil, until at last the cottage was hemmed in by a wall of flowers; and here she was ever as busy as the bees which hung humming on the sweet scabious. in this corner was a little hut for rabbits; in that, there was a hole dug in the bank for a hedgehog; in the middle a little flower-grown enclosure for cats in various stages of health or convalescence, and a small pond for frogs; and in the midst of all wandered her faithful dog, biribi by name, as master of the ceremonies. madame landresse's one ambition had been to live long enough to see her child's character formed. she knew that her own years were numbered, for month by month she felt her strength going. and yet a beautiful tenacity kept her where she would be until guida was fifteen years of age. her great desire had been to live till the girl was eighteen. then--well, then might she not perhaps leave her to the care of a husband? at best, m. de mauprat could not live long. he had at last been forced to give up the little watchmaker's shop in the vier marchi, where for so many years, in simple independence, he had wrought, always putting by, from work done after hours, jersey bank-notes and gold, to give guida a dot, if not worthy of her, at least a guarantee against reproach when some great man should come seeking her in marriage. but at last his hands trembled among the tiny wheels, and his eyes failed. he had his dark hour by himself, then he sold the shop to a native, who thenceforward sat in the ancient exile's place; and the two brown eyes of the stooped, brown old man looked out no more from the window in the vier marchi: and then they all made their new home in the place du vier prison. until she was fifteen guida's life was unclouded. once or twice her mother tried to tell her of a place that must soon be empty, but her heart failed her. so at last the end came like a sudden wind out of the north; and it was left to guida landresse de landresse to fight the fight and finish the journey of womanhood alone. this time was the turning-point in guida's life. what her mother had been to the sieur de mauprat, she soon became. they had enough to live on simply. every week her grandfather gave her a fixed sum for the household. upon this she managed, that the tiny income left by her mother might not be touched. she shrank from using it yet, and besides, dark times might come when it would be needed. death had once surprised her, but it should bring no more amazement. she knew that m. de mauprat's days were numbered, and when he was gone she would be left without one near relative in the world. she realised how unprotected her position would be when death came knocking at the door again. what she would do she knew not. she thought long and hard. fifty things occurred to her, and fifty were set aside. her mother's immediate relatives in france were scattered or dead. there was no longer any interest at chambery in the watchmaking exile, who had dropped like a cherry-stone from the beak of the blackbird of persecution upon one of the iles de la manche. there remained the alternative more than once hinted by the sieur de mauprat as the months grew into years after the mother died--marriage; a husband, a notable and wealthy husband. that was the magic destiny de mauprat figured for her. it did not elate her, it did not disturb her; she scarcely realised it. she loved animals, and she saw no reason to despise a stalwart youth. it had been her fortune to know two or three in the casual, unconventional manner of villages, and there were few in the land, great or humble, who did not turn twice to look at her as she passed through the vier marchi, so noble was her carriage, so graceful and buoyant her walk, so lacking in self-consciousness her beauty. more than one young gentleman of family had been known to ride through the place du vier prison, hoping to get sight of her, and to offer the view of a suggestively empty pillion behind him. she had, however, never listened to flatterers, and only one youth of jersey had footing in the cottage. this was ranulph delagarde, who had gone in and out at his will, but that was casually and not too often, and he was discreet and spoke no word of love. sometimes she talked to him of things concerning the daily life with which she did not care to trouble sieur de mauprat. in ways quite unknown to her he had made her life easier for her. she knew that her mother had thought of ranulph for her husband, although she blushed whenever--but it was not often--the idea came to her. she remembered how her mother had said that ranulph would be a great man in the island some day; that he had a mind above all the youths in st. heliers; that she would rather see ranulph a master ship-builder than a babbling ecrivain in the rue des tres pigeons, a smirking leech, or a penniless seigneur with neither trade nor talent. guida was attracted to ranulph through his occupation, for she loved strength, she loved all clean and wholesome trades; that of the mason, of the carpenter, of the blacksmith, and most of the ship-builder. her father, whom she did not remember, had been a ship-builder, and she knew that he had been a notable man; every one had told her that. ......................... "she has met her destiny," say the village gossips, when some man in the dusty procession of life sees a woman's face in the pleasant shadow of a home, and drops out of the ranks to enter at her doorway. was ranulph to be guida's destiny? handsome and stalwart though he looked as he entered the cottage in the place du vier prison, on that september morning after the rescue of the chevalier, his tool-basket on his shoulder, and his brown face enlivened by one simple sentiment, she was far from sure that he was--far from sure. chapter vii the little hall-way into which ranulph stepped from the street led through to the kitchen. guida stood holding back the door for him to enter this real living-room of the house, which opened directly upon the garden behind. it was so cheerful and secluded, looking out from the garden over the wide space beyond to the changeful sea, that since madame landresse's death the sieur de mauprat had made it reception-room, dining-room, and kitchen all in one. he would willingly have slept there too, but noblesse oblige and the thought of what the chevalier orvilliers du champsavoys de beaumanoir might think prevented him. moreover, there was something patriarchal in a kitchen as a reception-room; and both he and the chevalier loved to watch guida busy with her household duties: at one moment her arms in the dough of the kneading trough; at another picking cherries for a jelly, or casting up her weekly accounts with a little smiling and a little sighing. if, by chance, it had been proposed by the sieur to adjourn to the small sitting-room which looked out upon the place du vier prison, a gloom would instantly have settled upon them both; though in this little front room there was an ancient arm-chair, over which hung the sword that the comte guilbert mauprat de chambery had used at fontenoy against the english. so it was that this spacious kitchen, with its huge chimney, and paved with square flagstones and sanded, became like one of those ancient corners of camaraderie in some exclusive inn where gentlemen of quality were wont to meet. at the left of the chimney was the great settle, or veille, covered with baize, "flourished" with satinettes, and spread with ferns and rushes, and above it a little shelf of old china worth the ransom of a prince at least. opposite the doorway were two great armchairs, one for the sieur and the other for the chevalier, who made his home in the house of one elie mattingley, a fisherman by trade and by practice a practical smuggler, with a daughter carterette whom he loved passing well. these, with a few constant visitors, formed a coterie: the huge, grizzlybearded boatman, jean touzel, who wore spectacles, befriended smugglers, was approved of all men, and secretly worshipped by his wife; amice ingouville, the fat avocat with a stomach of gigantic proportions, the biggest heart and the tiniest brain in the world; maitre ranulph delagarde, and lastly m. yves savary dit detricand, that officer of rullecour's who, being released from the prison hospital, when the hour came for him to leave the country was too drunk to find the shore. by some whim of negligence the royal court was afterwards too lethargic to remove him, and he stayed on, vainly making efforts to leave between one carousal and another. in sober hours, none too frequent, he was rather sorrowfully welcomed by the sieur and the chevalier. when ranulph entered the kitchen his greeting to the sieur and the chevalier was in french, but to guida he said, rather stupidly in the patois--for late events had embarrassed him--"ah bah! es-tu gentiment?" "gentiment," she answered, with a queer little smile. "you'll have breakfast?" she said in english. "et ben!" ranulph repeated, still embarrassed, "a mouthful, that's all." he laid aside his tool-basket, shook hands with the sieur, and seated himself at the table. looking at du champsavoys, he said: "i've just met the connetable. he regrets the riot, chevalier, and says the royal court extends its mercy to you." "i prefer to accept no favours," answered the chevalier. "as a point of honour, i had thought that, after breakfast, i should return to prison, and--" "the connetable said it was cheaper to let the chevalier go free than to feed him in the vier prison," dryly explained ranulph, helping himself to roasted conger eel and eyeing hungrily the freshly-made black butter guida was taking from a wooden trencher. "the royal court is stingy," he added. "'it's nearer than jean noe, who got married in his red queminzolle,' as we say on jersey--" but he got no further at the moment, for shots rang out suddenly before the house. they all started to their feet, and ranulph, running to the front door, threw it open. as he did so a young man, with blood flowing from a cut on the temple, stepped inside. chapter viii it was m. savary dit detricand. "whew--what fools there are in the world! pish, you silly apes!" the young man said, glancing through the open doorway again to where the connetable's men were dragging two vile-looking ruffians into the vier prison. "what's happened, monsieur?" said ranulph, closing the door and bolting it. "what was it, monsieur?" asked guida anxiously, for painful events had crowded too fast that morning. detricand was stanching the blood at his temple with the scarf from his neck. "get him some cordial, guida--he's wounded!" said de mauprat. detricand waved a hand almost impatiently, and dropped upon the veille, swinging a leg backwards and forwards. "it's nothing, i protest--nothing whatever, and i'll have no cordial, not a drop. a drink of water--a mouthful of that, if i must drink." guida caught up a hanap of water from the dresser, and passed it to him. her fingers trembled a little. his were steady enough as he took the hanap and drank off the water at a gulp. again she filled it and again he drank. the blood was running in a tiny little stream down his cheek. she caught her handkerchief from her girdle impulsively, and gently wiped it away. "let me bandage the wound," she said eagerly. her eyes were alight with compassion, certainly not because it was the dissipated french invader, m. savary dit detricand,--no one knew that he was the young comte de tournay of the house of vaufontaine, but because he was a wounded fellowcreature. she would have done the same for the poor beganne, dormy jamais, who still prowled the purlieus of st. heliers. it was clear, however, that detricand felt differently. the moment she touched him he became suddenly still. he permitted her to wash the blood from his temple and forehead, to stanch it first with brandied jeruleaves, then with cobwebs, and afterwards to bind it with her own kerchief. detricand thrilled at the touch of the warm, tremulous fingers. he had never been quite so near her before. his face was not far from hers. now her breath fanned him. as he bent his head for the bandaging, he could see the soft pulsing of her bosom, and hear the beating of her heart. her neck was so full and round and soft, and her voice--surely he had never heard a voice so sweet and strong, a tone so well poised, so resonantly pleasant. when she had finished, he had an impulse to catch the hand as it dropped away from his forehead, and kiss it; not as he had kissed many a hand, hotly one hour and coldly the next, but with an unpurchasable kind of gratitude characteristic of this especial sort of sinner. he was just young enough, and there was still enough natural health in him, to know the healing touch of a perfect decency, a pure truth of spirit. yet he had been drunk the night before, drunk with three noncommissioned officers--and he a gentleman, in spite of all, as could be plainly seen. he turned his head away from the girl quickly, and looked straight into the eyes of her grandfather. "i'll tell you how it was, sieur de mauprat," said he. "i was crossing the place du vier prison when a rascal threw a cleaver at me from a window. if it had struck me on the head--well, the royal court would have buried me, and without a slab to my grave like rullecour. i burst open the door of the house, ran up the stairs, gripped the ruffian, and threw him through the window into the street. as i did so a door opened behind, and another cut-throat came at me with a pistol. he fired--fired wide. i ran in on him, and before he had time to think he was out of the window too. then the other brute below fired up at me. the bullet gashed my temple, as you see. after that, it was an affair of the connetable and his men. i had had enough fighting before breakfast. i saw your open door, and here i am--monsieur, monsieur, monsieur, mademoiselle!" he bowed to each of them and glanced towards the table hungrily. ranulph placed a seat for him. he viewed the conger eel and limpets with an avid eye, but waited for the chevalier and de mauprat to sit. he had no sooner taken a mouthful, however, and thrown a piece of bread to biribi the dog, than, starting again to his feet, he said: "your pardon, monsieur le chevalier, that brute in the place has knocked all sense from my head! i've a letter for you, brought from rouen by one of the refugees who came yesterday." he drew from his breast a packet and handed it over. "i went out to their ship last night." the chevalier looked with surprise and satisfaction at the seal on the letter, and, breaking it, spread open the paper, fumbled for the eyeglass which he always carried in his waistcoat, and began reading diligently. meanwhile ranulph turned to guida. "to-morrow jean touzel and his wife and i go to the ecrehos rocks in jean's boat," said he. "a vessel was driven ashore there three days ago, and my carpenters are at work on her. if you can go and the wind holds fair, you shall be brought back safe by sundown--jean says so too." of all boatmen and fishermen on the coast, jean touzel was most to be trusted. no man had saved so many shipwrecked folk, none risked his life so often; and he had never had a serious accident. to go to sea with jean touzel, folk said, was safer than living on land. guida loved the sea; and she could sail a boat, and knew the tides and currents of the south coast as well as most fishermen. m. de mauprat met her inquiring glance and nodded assent. she then said gaily to ranulph: "i shall sail her, shall i not?" "every foot of the way," he answered. she laughed and clapped her hands. suddenly the little chevalier broke in. "by the head of john the baptist!" said he. detricand put down his knife and fork in amazement, and guida coloured, for the words sounded almost profane upon the chevalier's lips. du champsavoys held up his eye-glass, and, turning from one to the other, looked at each of them imperatively yet abstractedly too. then, pursing up his lower lip, and with a growing amazement which carried him to distant heights of reckless language, he said again: "by the head of john the baptist on a charger!" he looked at detricand with a fierceness which was merely the tension of his thought. if he had looked at a wall it would have been the same. but detricand, who had an almost whimsical sense of humour, felt his neck in affected concern as though to be quite sure of it. "chevalier," said he, "you shock us--you shock us, dear chevalier." "the most painful things, and the most wonderful too," said the chevalier, tapping the letter with his eye-glass; "the most terrible and yet the most romantic things are here. a drop of cider, if you please, mademoiselle, before i begin to read it to you, if i may--if i may--eh?" they all nodded eagerly. guida handed him a mogue of cider. the little grey thrush of a man sipped it, and in a voice no bigger than a bird's began: "from lucillien du champsavoys, comte de chanier, by the hand of a faithful friend, who goeth hence from among divers dangers, unto my cousin, the chevalier du champsavoys de beaumanoir, late gentleman of the bedchamber to the best of monarchs, louis xv, this writing: "my dear and honoured cousin"--the chevalier paused, frowned a trifle, and tapped his lips with his finger in a little lyrical emotion--"my dear and honoured cousin, all is lost. the france we loved is no more. the twentieth of june saw the last vestige of louis's power pass for ever. that day ten thousand of the sans culottes forced their way into the palace to kill him. a faithful few surrounded him. in the mad turmoil, we were fearful, he was serene. 'feel,' said louis, placing his hand on his bosom, 'feel whether this is the beating of a heart shaken by fear.' ah, my friend, your heart would have clamped in misery to hear the queen cry: 'what have i to fear? death? it is as well to-day as to morrow; they can do no more!' their lives were saved, the day passed, but worse came after. "the tenth of august came. with it too, the end-the dark and bloody end-of the swiss guard. the jacobins had their way at last. the swiss guard died in the court of the carrousel as they marched to the assembly to save the king. thus the last circle of defence round the throne was broken. the palace was given over to flame and the sword. of twenty nobles of the court i alone escaped. france is become a slaughter-house. the people cried out for more liberty, and their liberators gave them the freedom of death. a fortnight ago, danton, the incomparable fiend, let loose his assassins upon the priests of god. now paris is made a theatre where the people whom louis and his nobles would have died to save have turned every street into a stable of carnage, every prison and hospital into a vast charnel-house. one last revolting thing alone remains to be done--the murder of the king; then this france that we have loved will have no name and no place in our generation. she will rise again, but we shall not see her, for our eyes have been blinded with blood, for ever darkened by disaster. like a mistress upon whom we have lavished the days of our youth and the strength of our days, she has deceived us; she has stricken us while we slept. behold a caliban now for her paramour! "weep with me, for france despoils me. one by one my friends have fallen beneath the axe. of my four sons but one remains. henri was stabbed by danton's ruffians at the hotel de ville; gaston fought and died with the swiss guard, whose hacked and severed limbs were broiled and eaten in the streets by these monsters who mutilate the land. isidore, the youngest, defied a hundred of robespierre's cowards on the steps of the assembly, and was torn to pieces by the mob. etienne alone is left. but for him and for the honour of my house i too would find a place beside the king and die with him. etienne is with de la rochejaquelein in brittany. i am here at rouen. "brittany and normandy still stand for the king. in these two provinces begins the regeneration of france: we call it the war of the vendee. on that isle of jersey there you should almost hear the voice of de la rochejaquelein and the marching cries of our loyal legions. if there be justice in god we shall conquer. but there will be joy no more for such as you or me, nor hope, nor any peace. we live only for those who come after. our duty remains, all else is dead. you did well to go, and i do well to stay. "by all these piteous relations you shall know the importance of the request i now set forth. "my cousin by marriage of the house of vaufontaine has lost all his sons. with the death of the prince of vaufontaine, there is in france no direct heir to the house, nor can it, by the law, revert to my house or my heirs. now of late the prince hath urged me to write to you--for he is here in seclusion with me--and to unfold to you what has hitherto been secret. eleven years ago the only nephew of the prince, after some naughty escapades, fled from the court with rullecour the adventurer, who invaded the isle of jersey. from that hour he has been lost to france. some of his companions in arms returned after a number of years. all with one exception declared that he was killed in the battle at st. heliers. one, however, maintains that he was still living and in the prison hospital when his comrades were set free. "it is of him i write to you. he is--as you will perchance remember--the comte de tournay. he was then not more than seventeen years of age, slight of build, with brownish hair, dark grey eyes, and had over the right shoulder a scar from a sword thrust. it seemeth little possible that, if living, he should still remain in that isle of jersey. he may rather have returned to obscurity in france or have gone to england to be lost to name and remembrance --or even indeed beyond the seas. "that you may perchance give me word of him is the object of my letter, written in no more hope than i live; and you can well guess how faint that is. one young nobleman preserved to france may yet be the great unit that will save her. "greet my poor countrymen yonder in the name of one who still waits at a desecrated altar; and for myself you must take me as i am, with the remembrance of what i was, even "your faithful friend and loving kinsman, "chanier." "all this, though in the chances of war you read it not till wintertide, was told you at rouen this first day of september 1792." during the reading, broken by feeling and reflective pauses on the chevalier's part, the listeners showed emotion after the nature of each. the sieur de mauprat's fingers clasped and unclasped on the top of his cane, little explosions of breath came from his compressed lips, his eyebrows beetled over till the eyes themselves seemed like two glints of flame. delagarde dropped a fist heavily upon the table, and held it there clinched, while his heel beat a tattoo of excitement upon the floor. guida's breath came quick and fast--as ranulph said afterwards, she was "blanc comme un linge." she shuddered painfully when the slaughter and burning of the swiss guards was read. her brain was so swimming with the horrors of anarchy that the latter part of the letter dealing with the vanished count of tournay passed by almost unheeded. but this particular matter greatly interested ranulph and de mauprat. they leaned forward eagerly, seizing every word, and both instinctively turned towards detricand when the description of de tournay was read. as for detricand himself, he listened to the first part of the letter like a man suddenly roused out of a dream. for the first time since the revolution had begun, the horror of it and the meaning of it were brought home to him. he had been so long expatriated, had loitered so long in the primrose path of daily sleep and nightly revel, had fallen so far, that he little realised how the fiery wheels of death were spinning in france, or how black was the torment of her people. his face turned scarlet as the thing came home to him now. he dropped his head in his hand as if to listen more attentively, but it was in truth to hide his emotion. when the names of vaufontaine and de tournay were mentioned, he gave a little start, then suddenly ruled himself to a strange stillness. his face seemed presently to clear; he even smiled a little. conscious that de mauprat and delagarde were watching him, he appeared to listen with a keen but impersonal interest, not without its effect upon his scrutinisers. he nodded his head as though he understood the situation. he acted very well; he bewildered the onlookers. they might think he tallied with the description of the comte de tournay, yet he gave the impression that the matter was not vital to himself. but when the little chevalier stopped and turned his eye-glass upon him with sudden startled inquiry, he found it harder to keep composure. "singular--singular!" said the old man, and returned to the reading of the letter. when he ended there was absolute silence for a moment. then the chevalier lifted his eye-glass again and looked at detricand intently. "pardon me, monsieur," he said, "but you were with rullecour--as i was saying." detricand nodded with a droll sort of helplessness, and answered: "in jersey i never have chance to forget it, chevalier." du champsavoys, with a naive and obvious attempt at playing counsel, fixed him again with the glass, pursed his lips, and with the importance of a greffier at the ancient cour d'heritage, came one step nearer to his goal. "have you knowledge of the comte de tournay, monsieur?" "i knew him--as you were saying, chevalier," answered detricand lightly. then the chevalier struck home. he dropped his fingers upon the table, stood up, and, looking straight into detricand's eyes, said: "monsieur, you are the comte de tournay!" the chevalier involuntarily held the silence for an instant. nobody stirred. de mauprat dropped his chin upon his hands, and his eyebrows drew down in excitement. guida gave a little cry of astonishment. but detricand answered the chevalier with a look of blank surprise and a shrug of the shoulder, which had the effect desired. "thank you, chevalier," said he with quizzical humour. "now i know who i am, and if it isn't too soon to levy upon the kinship, i shall dine with you today, chevalier. i paid my debts yesterday, and sous are scarce, but since we are distant cousins i may claim grist at the family mill, eh?" the chevalier sat, or rather dropped into his chair again. "then you are not the comte de tournay, monsieur," said he hopelessly. "then i shall not dine with you to-day," retorted detricand gaily. you fit the tale," said de mauprat dubiously, touching the letter with his finger. "let me see," rejoined detricand. "i've been a donkey farmer, a shipmaster's assistant, a tobacco pedlar, a quarryman, a wood merchant, an interpreter, a fisherman--that's very like the comte de tournay! on monday night i supped with a smuggler; on tuesday i breakfasted on soupe a la graisse with manon moignard the witch; on wednesday i dined with dormy jamais and an avocat disbarred for writing lewd songs for a chocolate-house; on thursday i went oyster-fishing with a native who has three wives, and a butcher who has been banished four times for not keeping holy the sabbath day; and i drank from eleven o'clock till sunrise this morning with three scotch sergeants of the line--which is very like the comte de tournay, as you were saying, chevalier! i am five feet eleven, and the comte de tournay was five feet ten--which is no lie," he added under his breath. "i have a scar, but it's over my left shoulder and not over my right--which is also no lie," he added under his breath. "de tournay's hair was brown, and mine, you see, is almost a dead black--fever did that," he added under his breath. "de tournay escaped the day after the battle of jersey from the prison hospital, i was left, and here i've been ever since--yves savary dit detricand at your service, chevalier." a pained expression crossed over the chevalier's face. "i am most sorry; i am most sorry," he said hesitatingly. "i had no wish to wound your feelings." "ah, it is de tournay to whom you must apologise," said detricand musingly, with a droll look. "it is a pity," continued the chevalier, "for somehow all at once i recalled a resemblance. i saw de tournay when he was fourteen--yes, i think it was fourteen--and when i looked at you, monsieur, his face came back to me. it would have made my cousin so happy if you had been the comte de tournay and i had found you here." the old man's voice trembled a little. "we are growing fewer every day, we frenchmen of the ancient families. and it would have made my cousin so happy, as i was saying, monsieur." detricand's manner changed; he became serious. the devil-may-care, irresponsible shamelessness of his face dropped away like a mask. something had touched him. his voice changed too. "de tournay was a much better fellow than i am, chevalier," said he--" and that's no lie," he added under his breath. "de tournay was a fiery, ambitious, youngster with bad companions. de tournay told me he repented of coming with rullecour, and he felt he had spoilt his life--that he could never return to france again or to his people." the old chevalier shook his head sadly. "is he dead?" he asked. there was a slight pause, and then detricand answered: "no, still living." "where is he?" "i promised de tournay that i would never reveal that." "might i not write to him?" asked the old man. "assuredly, chevalier." "could you--will you--despatch a letter to him from me, monsieur?" "upon my honour, yes." "i thank you--i thank you, monsieur; i will write it to-day." "as you will, chevalier. i will ask you for the letter to-night," rejoined detricand. "it may take time to reach de tournay; but he shall receive it into his own hands." de mauprat trembled to his feet to put the question he knew the chevalier dreaded to ask: "do you think that monsieur le comte will return to france?" "i think he will," answered detricand slowly. "it will make my cousin so happy--so happy," quavered the little chevalier. "will you take snuff with me, monsieur?" he offered his silver snuff-box to his vagrant countryman. this was a mark of favour he showed to few. detricand bowed, accepted, and took a pinch. "i must be going," he said. chapter ix at eight o'clock the next morning, guida and her fellow-voyagers, bound for the ecrehos rocks, had caught the first ebb of the tide, and with a fair wind from the sou'-west had skirted the coast, ridden lightly over the banc des violets, and shaped their course nor'-east. guida kept the helm all the way, as she had been promised by ranulph. it was still more than half tide when they approached the rocks, and with a fair wind there should be ease in landing. no more desolate spot might be imagined. to the left, as you faced towards jersey, was a long sand-bank. between the rocks and the sandbank shot up a tall, lonely shaft of granite with an evil history. it had been chosen as the last refuge of safety for the women and children of a shipwrecked vessel, in the belief that high tide would not reach them. but the wave rose up maliciously, foot by foot, till it drowned their cries for ever in the storm. the sand-bank was called "ecriviere," and the rock was afterwards known as the "pierre des femmes." other rocks less prominent, but no less treacherous, flanked it--the noir sabloniere and the grande galere. to the right of the main island were a group of others, all reef and shingle, intersected by treacherous channels; in calm lapped by water with the colours of a prism of crystal, in storm by a leaden surf and flying foam. these were known as the colombiere, the grosse tete, tas de pois, and the marmotiers; each with its retinue of sunken reefs and needles of granitic gneiss lying low in menace. happy the sailor caught in a storm and making for the shelter the little curves in the island afford, who escapes a twist of the current, a sweep of the tide, and the impaling fingers of the submarine palisades. beyond these rocks lay maitre ile, all gneiss and shingle, a desert in the sea. the holy men of the early church, beholding it from the shore of normandy, had marked it for a refuge from the storms of war and the follies of the world. so it came to pass, for the honour of god and the virgin mary, the abbe of val richer builded a priory there: and there now lie in peace the bones of the monks of val richer beside the skeletons of unfortunate gentlemen of the sea of later centuries--pirates from france, buccaneers from england, and smugglers from jersey, who kept their trysts in the precincts of the ancient chapel. the brisk air of early autumn made the blood tingle in guida's cheeks. her eyes were big with light and enjoyment. her hair was caught close by a gay cap of her own knitting, but a little of it escaped, making a pretty setting to her face. the boat rode under all her courses, until, as jean said, they had put the last lace on her bonnet. guida's hands were on the tiller firmly, doing jean's bidding promptly. in all they were five. besides guida and ranulph, jean and jean's wife, there was a young english clergyman of the parish of st. michael's, who had come from england to fill the place of the rector for a few months. word had been brought to him that a man was dying on the ecrehos. he had heard that the boat was going, he had found jean touzel, and here he was with a biscuit in his hand and a black-jack of french wine within easy reach. not always in secret the reverend lorenzo dow loved the good things of this world. the most notable characteristic of the young clergyman's appearance was his outer guilelessness and the oddness of his face. his head was rather big for his body; he had a large mouth which laughed easily, a noble forehead, and big, short-sighted eyes. he knew french well, but could speak almost no jersey patois, so, in compliment to him, jean touzel, ranulph, and guida spoke in english. this ability to speak english--his own english--was the pride of jean's life. he babbled it all the way, and chiefly about a mythical uncle elias, who was the text for many a sermon. "times past," said he, as they neared maitre ile, "mon onc' 'lias he knows these ecrehoses better as all the peoples of the world--respe d'la compagnie. mon onc' 'lias he was a fine man. once when there is a fight between de henglish and de hopping johnnies," he pointed towards france, "dere is seven french ship, dere is two henglish ship--gentlemen-of-war dey are call. eh ben, one of de henglish ships he is not a gentleman-ofwar, he is what you call go-on-your-own-hook--privator. but it is all de same--tres-ba, all right! what you t'ink coum to pass? de big henglish ship she is hit ver' bad, she is all break-up. efin, dat leetle privator he stan' round on de fighting side of de gentleman-of-war and take de fire by her loneliness. say, then, wherever dere is troub' mon onc' 'lias he is there, he stan' outside de troub' an' look on--dat is his hobby. you call it hombog? oh, nannin-gia! suppose two peoples goes to fight, ah bah, somebody must pick up de pieces--dat is mon onc' 'lias! he have his boat full of hoysters; so he sit dere all alone and watch dat great fight, an' heat de hoyster an' drink de cider vine. "ah, bah! mon onc' 'lias he is standin' hin de door dat day. dat is what we say on jersey--when a man have some ver' great luck we say he stan' hin de door. i t'ink it is from de bible or from de helmanac--sacre moi, i not know.... if i talk too much you give me dat black-jack." they gave him the black-jack. after he had drunk and wiped his mouth on his sleeve, he went on: "o my good-ma'm'selle, a leetle more to de wind. ah, dat is right-trejous! . . . dat fight it go like two bulls on a vergee--respe d'la compagnie. mon onc' 'lias he have been to hengland, he have sing 'god save our greshus king'; so he t'ink a leetle--ef he go to de french, likely dey will hang him. mon onc' 'lias, he is what you call patreeteesm. he say, 'hengland, she is mine--trejous.' efin, he sail straight for de henglish ships. dat is de greates' man, mon onc' 'lias --respe d'la compagnie! he coum on de side which is not fighting. ah bah, he tell dem dat he go to save de gentleman-of-war. he see a hofficier all bloodiness and he call hup: 'es-tu gentiment?' he say. 'gentiment,' say de hofficier; 'han' you?' 'naicely, yank you!' mon onc' 'lias he say. 'i will save you,' say mon onc' 'lias--'i will save de ship of god save our greshus king.' de hofficier wipe de tears out of his face. 'de king will reward you, man alive,' he say. mon onc' 'lias he touch his breast and speak out. 'mon hofficier, my reward is here-trejous. i will take you into de ecrehoses.' 'coum up and save de king's ships,' says de hofficier. 'i will take no reward,' say mon onc' 'lias, 'but, for a leetle pourboire, you will give me de privator --eh?' 'milles sacres'--say de hofficier, 'mines saeres--de privator!' he say, ver' surprise'. 'man doux d'la vie--i am damned!' 'you are damned trulee, if you do not get into de ecrehoses,' say mon onc' 'lias --'a bi'tot, good-bye!' he say. de hofficier call down to him: 'is dere nosing else you will take?' 'nannin, do not tempt me,' say mon onc' 'lias. 'i am not a gourman'. i will take de privator--dat is my hobby.' all de time de cannons grand--dey brow-brou! boum-boum!--what you call discomfortable. time is de great t'ing, so de hofficier wipe de tears out of his face again. 'coum up,' he say; 'de privator is yours.' "away dey go. you see dat spot where we coum to land, ma'm'selle landresse--where de shingle look white, de leetle green grass above? dat is where mon onc' 'lias he bring in de king's ship and de privator. gatd'en'ale--it is a journee awful! he twist to de right, he shape to de left trough de teeth of de rocks--all safe--vera happee--to dis nice leetle bay of de maitre ile dey coum. de frenchies dey grind dere teeth and spit de fire. but de henglish laugh at demdey are safe. 'frien' of my heart,' say de hofficier to mon onc' 'lias, 'pilot of pilots,' he say, 'in de name of our greshus king i t'ank you--a bi'tot, good-bye!' he say. 'tres-ba,' mon onc' 'lias he say den, 'i will go to my privator.' 'you will go to de shore,' say de hofficier. 'you will wait on de shore till de captain and his men of de privator coum to you. when dey coum, de ship is yours--de privator is for you.' mon onc' 'lias he is like a child--he believe. he 'bout ship and go shore. misery me, he sit on dat rocking-stone you see tipping on de wind. but if he wait until de men of de privator coum to him, he will wait till we see him sitting there now. gache-a-penn, you say patriote? mon onc' 'lias he has de patreeteesm, and what happen? he save de ship of de greshus king god save--and dey eat up his hoysters! he get nosing. gad'rabotin--respe d'la compagnie-if dere is a ship of de king coum to de ecrehoses, and de hofficier say to me"--he tapped his breast--"'jean touzel, tak de ships of de king trough de rocks,'--ah bah, i would rememb' mon onc' 'lias. i would say, 'a bi'tot-good-bye.' . . . slowlee--slowlee! we are at de place. bear wif de land, ma'm'selle! steadee! as you go! v'la! hitch now, maitre ranulph." the keel of the boat grated on the shingle. the air of the morning, the sport of using the elements for one's pleasure, had given guida an elfish sprightliness of spirits. twenty times during jean's recital she had laughed gaily, and never sat a laugh better on any one's countenance than on hers. her teeth were strong, white, and regular; in themselves they gave off a sort of shining mirth. at first the lugubrious wife of the happy jean was inclined to resent guida's gaiety as unseemly, for jean's story sounded to her as serious statement of fact; which incapacity for humour probably accounted for jean's occasional lapses from domestic grace. if jean had said that he had met a periwinkle dancing a hornpipe with an oyster she would have muttered heavily "think of that!" the most she could say to any one was: "i believe you, ma couzaine." some time in her life her voice had dropped into that great well she called her body, and it came up only now and then like an echo. there never was anything quite so fat as she. she was found weeping one day on the veille because she was no longer able to get her shoulders out of the window to use the clothes-lines stretching to her neighbour's over the way. if she sat down in your presence, it was impossible to do aught but speculate as to whether she could get up alone. yet she went abroad on the water a great deal with jean. at first the neighbours gave out sinister suspicions as to jean's intentions, for sea-going with your own wife was uncommon among the sailors of the coast. but at last these dark suggestions settled down into a belief that jean took her chiefly for ballast; and thereafter she was familiarly called "femme de ballast." talking was no virtue in her eyes. what was going on in her mind no one ever knew. she was more phlegmatic than an indian; but the tails of the sheep on the town hill did not better show the quarter of the wind than the changing colour of aimable's face indicated jean's coming or going. for mattresse aimable had one eternal secret, an unwavering passion for jean touzel. if he patted her on the back on a day when the fishing was extra fine, her heart pumped so hard she had to sit down; if, passing her lonely bed of a morning, he shook her great toe to wake her, she blushed, and turned her face to the wall in placid happiness. she was so credulous and matter-of-fact that if jean had told her she must die on the spot, she would have said "think of that!" or "je te crais," and died. if in the vague dusk of her brain the thought glimmered that she was ballast for jean on sea and anchor on land, she still was content. for twenty years the massive, straight-limbed jean had stood to her for all things since the heavens and the earth were created. once, when she had burnt her hand in cooking supper for him, his arm made a trial of her girth, and he kissed her. the kiss was nearer her ear than her lips, but to her mind it was the most solemn proof of her connubial happiness and of jean's devotion. she was a catholic, unlike jean and most people of her class in jersey, and ever since that night he kissed her she had told an extra bead on her rosary and said another prayer. these were the reasons why at first she was inclined to resent guida's laughter. but when she saw that maitre ranulph and the curate and jean himself laughed, she settled down to a grave content until they landed. they had scarce reached the deserted chapel where their dinner was to be cooked by maitresse aimable, when ranulph called them to note a vessel bearing in their direction. "she's not a coasting craft," said jean. "she doesn't look like a merchant vessel," said ranulph, eyeing her through his telescope. "why, she's a warship!" he added. jean thought she was not, but maitre ranulph said "pardi, i ought to know, jean. ship-building is my trade, to say nothing of guns--i wasn't two years in the artillery for nothing. see the low bowsprit and the high poop. she's bearing this way. she'll be narcissus!" he said slowly. that was philip d'avranche's ship. guida's face lighted, her heart beat faster. ranulph turned on his heel. "where are you going, ro?" guida said, taking a step after him. "on the other side, to my men and the wreck," he said, pointing. guida glanced once more towards the man-o'-war: and then, with mischief in her eye, turned towards jean. "suppose," she said to him archly, "suppose the ship should want to come in, of course you'd remember your onc' 'lias, and say, 'a bi'tot, good-bye!"' an evasive "ah bah!" was the only reply jean vouchsafed. ranulph joined his men at the wreck, and the reverend lorenzo dow went about the lord's business in the little lean-to of sail-cloth and ship's lumber which had been set up near to the toil of the carpenters. when the curate entered the but the sick man was in a doze. he turned his head from side to side restlessly and mumbled to himself. the curate, sitting on the ground beside the man, took from his pocket a book, and began writing in a strange, cramped hand. this book was his journal. when a youth he had been a stutterer, and had taken refuge from talk in writing, and the habit stayed even as his affliction grew less. the important events of the day or the week, the weather, the wind, the tides, were recorded, together with sundry meditations of the reverend lorenzo dow. the pages were not large, and brevity was mr. dow's journalistic virtue. beyond the diligent keeping of this record, he had no habits, certainly no precision, no remembrance, no system: the business of his life ended there. he had quietly vacated two curacies because there had been bitter complaints that the records of certain baptisms, marriages, and burials might only be found in the chequered journal of his life, sandwiched between fantastic reflections and remarks upon the rubric. the records had been exact enough, but the system was not canonical, and it rested too largely upon the personal ubiquity of the itinerary priest, and the safety of his journal--and of his life. guida, after the instincts of her nature, had at once sought the highest point on the rocky islet, and there she drank in the joy of sight and sound and feeling. she could see--so perfect was the day--the line marking the minquiers far on the southern horizon, the dark and perfect green of the jersey slopes, and the white flags of foam which beat against the dirouilles and the far-off paternosters, dissolving as they flew, their place taken by others, succeeding and succeeding, as a soldier steps into a gap in the line of battle. something in these rocks, something in the paternosters--perhaps their distance, perhaps their remoteness from all other rocks--fascinated her. as she looked at them, she suddenly felt a chill, a premonition, a half-spiritual, halfmaterial telegraphy of the inanimate to the animate: not from off cold stone to sentient life; but from that atmosphere about the inanimate thing, where the life of man has spent itself and been dissolved, leaving--who can tell what? something which speaks but yet has no sound. the feeling which possessed guida as she looked at the paternosters was almost like blank fear. yet physical fear she had never felt, not since that day when the battle raged in the vier marchi, and philip d'avranche had saved her from the destroying scimitar of the turk. now that scene all came back to her in a flash, as it were; and she saw again the dark snarling face of the mussulman, the blue-and-white silk of his turban, the black and white of his waistcoat, the red of the long robe, and the glint of his uplifted sword. then in contrast, the warmth, brightness, and bravery on the face of the lad in blue and gold who struck aside the descending blade and caught her up in his arms; and she had nestled there--in those arms of philip d'avranche. she remembered how he had kissed her, and how she had kissed him--he a lad and she a little child --as he left her with her mother in the watchmaker's shop in the vier marchi that day. . . . and she had never seen him again until yesterday. she looked from the rocks to the approaching frigate. was it the narcissus coming--coming to this very island? she recalled philip--how gallant he was yesterday, how cool, with what an air of command! how light he had made of the riot! ranulph's strength and courage she accepted as a matter of course, and was glad that he was brave, generous, and good; but the glamour of distance and mystery were around d'avranche. remembrance, like a comet, went circling through the firmament of eleven years, from the vier marchi to the place du vier prison. she watched the ship slowly bearing with the land. the jack was flying from the mizzen. they were now taking in her topsails. she was so near that guida could see the anchor a-cockbell, and the poop lanthorns. she could count the guns like long black horns shooting out from a rhinoceros hide: she could discern the figurehead lion snarling into the spritsail. presently the ship came up to the wind and lay to. then she signalled for a pilot, and guida ran towards the ruined chapel, calling for jean touzel. in spite of jean's late protests as to piloting a "gentleman-of-war," this was one of the joyful moments of his life. he could not loosen his rowboat quick enough; he was away almost before you could have spoken his name. excited as guida was, she could not resist calling after him: "'god save our greshus king! a bi'tot--goodbye!'" etext editor's bookmarks: a sort of chuckle not entirely pleasant sacrifice to the god of the pin-hole what fools there are in the world this ebook was produced by david widger the battle of the strong [a romance of two kingdoms] by gilbert parker volume 3. chapter xvi the night and morning after guida's marriage came and went. the day drew on to the hour fixed for the going of the narcissus. guida had worked all forenoon with a feverish unrest, not trusting herself, though the temptation was sore, to go where she might see philip's vessel lying in the tide-way. she had resolved that only at the moment fixed for sailing would she go to the shore; yet from her kitchen door she could see a wide acreage of blue water and a perfect sky; and out there was noirmont point, round which her husband's ship would go, and be lost to her vision thereafter. the day wore on. she got her grandfather's dinner, saw him bestowed in the great arm-chair for his afternoon sleep, and, when her household work was done, settled herself at the spinning wheel. the old man loved to have her spin and sing as he drowsed. to-day his eyes had followed her everywhere. he could not have told why it was, but somehow all at once he seemed to deeply realise her--her beauty, the joy of this innocent living intelligence moving through his home. she had always been necessary to him, but he had taken her presence as a matter of course. she had always been to him the most wonderful child ever given to comfort an old man's life, but now as he abstractedly took a pinch of snuff from the silver box and then forgot to put it to his nose, he seemed suddenly to get that clearness of sight, that perspective, from which he could see her as she really was. he took another pinch of snuff, and again forgot to put it to his nose, but brushed imaginary dust from his coat, as was his wont, and whispered to himself: "why now, why now, i had not thought she was so much a woman. flowers of the sea, but what eyes, what carriage, and what an air! i had not thought--h'm--blind old bat that i am--i had not thought she was grown such a lady. it was only yesterday, surely but yesterday, since i rocked her to sleep. francois de mauprat"--he shook his head at himself--"you are growing old. let me see--why, yes, she was born the day i sold the blue enamelled timepiece to his highness the duc de mauban. the duc was but putting the watch to his ear when a message comes to say the child there is born. 'good,' says the duc de mauban, when he hears, 'give me the honour, de mauprat,' says he, 'for the sake of old days in france, to offer a name to the brave innocent--for the sake of old associations,' says de mauban. 'you knew my wife, de mauprat,' says he; 'you knew the duchesse guida-guidabaldine. she's been gone these ten years, alas! you were with me when we were married, de mauprat,' says the duc; 'i should care to return the compliment if you will allow me to offer a name, eh?' 'duc,' said i, 'there is no honour i more desire for my grandchild.' 'then let the name of guidabaldine be somewhere among others she will carry, and--and i'll not forget her, de mauprat, i'll not forget her.'... eh, eh, i wonder--i wonder if he has forgotten the little guidabaldine there? he sent her a golden cup for the christening, but i wonder-i wonder--if he has forgotten her since? so quick of tongue, so bright of eye, so light of foot, so sweet a face--if one could but be always young! when her grandmother, my wife, my julie, when she was young--ah, she was fair, fairer than guida, but not so tall--not quite so tall. ah! . . . " he was slipping away into sleep when he realised that guida was singing "spin, spin, belle mergaton! the moon wheels full, and the tide flows high, and your wedding-gown you must put it on ere the night hath no moon in the sky- gigoton mergaton, spin!" "i had never thought she was so much a woman," he said drowsily; "i-i wonder why--i never noticed it." he roused himself again, brushed imaginary snuff from his coat, keeping time with his foot to the wheel as it went round. "i--i suppose she will wed soon. . . . i had forgotten. but she must marry well, she must marry well--she is the godchild of the duc de mauban. how the wheel goes round! i used to hear--her mother--sing that song, 'gigoton, mergaton spin-spin-spin.'" he was asleep. guida put by the wheel, and left the house. passing through the rue des sablons, she came to the shore. it was high tide. this was the time that philip's ship was to go. she had dressed herself with as much care as to what might please his eye as though she were going to meet him in person. not without reason, for, though she could not see him from the land, she knew he could see her plainly through his telescope, if he chose. she reached the shore. the time had come for him to go, but there was his ship at anchor in the tide-way still. perhaps the narcissus was not going; perhaps, after all, philip was to remain! she laughed with pleasure at the thought of that. her eyes wandered lovingly over the ship which was her husband's home upon the sea. just such another vessel philip would command. at a word from him those guns, like long, black, threatening arms thrust out, would strike for england with thunder and fire. a bugle call came across the still water, clear, vibrant, and compelling. it represented power. power--that was what philip, with his ship, would stand for in the name of england. danger--oh yes, there would be danger, but heaven would be good to her; philip should go safe through storm and war, and some day great honours would be done him. he should be an admiral, and more perhaps; he had said so. he was going to do it as much for her as for himself, and when he had done it, to be proud of it more for her than for himself; he had said so: she believed in him utterly. since that day upon the ecrehos it had never occurred to her not to believe him. where she gave her faith she gave it wholly; where she withdrew it-the bugle call sounded again. perhaps that was the signal to set sail. no, a boat was putting out from the narcissus. it was coming landward. as she watched its approach she heard a chorus of boisterous voices behind her. she turned and saw nearing the shore from the rue d'egypte a half-dozen sailors, singing cheerily: "get you on, get you on, get you on, get you on to your fo'c'stle'ome; leave your lassies, leave your beer, for the bugle what you 'ear pipes you on to your fo'c'stle 'ome- 'ome--'ome--'ome, pipes you on to your fo'c'stle 'ome." guida drew near. "the narcissus is not leaving to-day?" she asked of the foremost sailor. the man touched his cap. "not to-day, lady." "when does she leave?" "well, that's more nor i can say, lady, but the cap'n of the main-top, yander, 'e knows." she approached the captain of the main-top. "when does the narcissus leave?" she asked. he looked her up and down, at first glance with something like boldness, but instantly he touched his hat. "to-morrow, mistress--she leaves at 'igh tide tomorrow." with an eye for a fee or a bribe, he drew a little away from the others, and said to her in a low tone: "is there anything what i could do for you, mistress? p'r'aps you wanted some word carried aboard, lady?" she hesitated an instant, then said: "no-no, thank you." he still waited, however, rubbing his hand on his hip with mock bashfulness. there was an instant's pause, then she divined his meaning. she took from her pocket a shilling. she had never given away so much money in her life before, but she seemed to feel instinctively that now she must give freely--now that she was the wife of an officer of the navy. strange how these sailors to-day seemed so different to her from ever before--she felt as if they all belonged to her. she offered the shilling to the captain of the main-top. his eyes gloated, but he said with an affected surprise: "no, i couldn't think of it, yer leddyship." "ah, but you will take it!" she said. "i--i have a r-relative"--she hesitated at the word--" in the navy." "'ave you now, yer leddyship?" he said. "well, then, i'm proud to 'ave the shilling to drink 'is 'ealth, yer leddyship." he touched his hat, and was about to turn away. "stay a little," she said with bashful boldness. the joy of giving was rapidly growing to a vice. "here's something for them," she added, nodding towards his fellows, and a second shilling came from her pocket. "just as you say, yer leddyship," he said with owlish gravity; "but for my part i think they've 'ad enough. i don't 'old with temptin' the weak passions of man." a moment afterwards the sailors were in the boat, rowing towards the narcissus. their song came back across the water: ". . . o you a.b. sailor-man, wet your whistle while you can, for the piping of the bugle calls you 'ome! 'ome--'ome--'ome, calls you on to your fo'c'stle 'ome!" the evening came down, and guida sat in the kitchen doorway looking out over the sea, and wondering why philip had sent her no message. of course he would not come himself, he must not: he had promised her. but how much she would have liked to see him for just one minute, to feel his arms about her, to hear him say good-bye once more. yet she loved him the better for not coming. by and by she became very restless. she would have been almost happier if he had gone that day: he was within call of her, still they were not to see each other. she walked up and down the garden, biribi the dog by her side. sitting down on the bench beneath the appletree, she recalled every word that philip had said to her two days before. every tone of his voice, every look he had given her, she went over in her thoughts. there is no reporting in the world so exact, so perfect, as that in a woman's mind, of the words, looks, and acts of her lover in the first days of mutual confession and understanding. it can come but once, this dream, fantasy, illusion--call it what you will: it belongs to the birth hour of a new and powerful feeling; it is the first sunrise of the heart. what comes after may be the calmer joy of a more truthful, a less ideal emotion, but the transitory glory of the love and passion of youth shoots higher than all other glories into the sky of time. the splendour of youth is its madness, and the splendour of that madness is its unconquerable belief. and great is the strength of it, because violence alone can destroy it. it does not yield to time nor to decay, to the long wash of experience that wears away the stone, nor to disintegration. it is always broken into pieces at a blow. in the morning all is well, and ere the evening come the radiant temple is in ruins. at night when guida went to bed she could not sleep at first. then came a drowsing, a floating between waking and sleeping, in which a hundred swift images of her short past flashed through her mind: a butterfly darting in the white haze of a dusty road, and the cap of the careless lad that struck it down.... berry-picking along the hedges beyond the quarries of mont mado, and washing her hands in the strange green pools at the bottom of the quarries. . . . stooping to a stream and saying of it to a lad: "ro, won't it never come back?" . . . from the front doorway watching a poor criminal shrink beneath the lash with which he was being flogged from the vier marchi to the vier prison. . . seeing a procession of bride and bridegroom with young men and women gay in ribbons and pretty cottons, calling from house to house to receive the good wishes of their friends, and drinking cinnamon wine and mulled cider--the frolic, the gaiety of it all. now, in a room full of people, she was standing on a veille flourished with posies of broom and wildflowers, and philip was there beside her, and he was holding her hand, and they were waiting and waiting for some one who never came. nobody took any notice of her and philip, she thought; they stood there waiting and waiting--why, there was m. savary dit detricand in the doorway, waving a handkerchief at her, and saying: "i've found it--i've found it!"--and she awoke with a start. her heart was beating hard, and for a moment she was dazed; but presently she went to sleep again, and dreamed once more. this time she was on a great warship, in a storm which was driving towards a rocky shore. the sea was washing over the deck. she recognised the shore: it was the cliff at plemont in the north of jersey, and behind the ship lay the awful paternosters. they were drifting, drifting on the wall of rock. high above on the land there was a solitary stone hut. the ship came nearer and nearer. the storm increased in strength. in the midst of the violence she looked up and saw a man standing in the doorway of the hut. he turned his face towards her: it was ranulph delagarde, and he had a rope in his hand. he saw her and called to her, making ready to throw the rope, but suddenly some one drew her back. she cried aloud, and then all grew black. . . . and then, again, she knew she was in a small, dark cabin of the ship. she could hear the storm breaking over the deck. now the ship struck. she could feel her grinding upon the rocks. she seemed to be sinking, sinking--there was a knocking, knocking at the door of the cabin, and a voice calling to her--how far away it seemed! . . . was she dying, was she drowning? the words of a nursery rhyme rang in her ears distinctly, keeping time to the knocking. she wondered who should be singing a nursery rhyme on a sinking ship: "la main morte, la main morte, tapp' a la porte, tapp' a la porte." she shuddered. why should the dead hand tap at her door? yet there it was tapping louder, louder. . . . she struggled, she tried to cry out, then suddenly she grew quiet, and the tapping got fainter and fainter--her eyes opened: she was awake. for an instant she did not know where she was. was it a dream still? for there was a tapping, tapping at her door--no, it was at the window. a shiver ran through her from head to foot. her heart almost stopped beating. some one was calling to her. "guida! guida!" it was philip's voice. her cheek had been cold the moment before; now she felt the blood tingling in her face. she slid to the floor, threw a shawl round her, and went to the casement. the tapping began again. for a moment she could not open the window. she was trembling from head to foot. philip's voice reassured her a little. "guida, guida, open the window a moment." she hesitated. she could not--no--she could not do it. he tapped still louder. "guida, don't you hear me?" he asked. she undid the catch, but she had hardly the courage even yet. he heard her now, and pressed the window a little. then she opened it slowly, and her white face showed. "o philip," she said breathlessly, "why have you frightened me so?" he caught her hand in his own. "come out into the garden, sweetheart," he said, and he kissed the hand. "put on a dress and your slippers and come," he urged again. "philip," she said, "o philip, i cannot! it is too late. it is midnight. do not ask me. why, why did you come?" "because i wanted to speak with you for one minute. i have only a little while. please come outside and say good-bye to me again. we are sailing to-morrow--there's no doubt about it this time." "o philip," she answered, her voice quivering, "how can i? say good-bye to me here, now." "no, no, guida, you must come. i can't kiss you good-bye where you are." "must i come to you?" she said helplessly. "well, then, philip," she added, "go to the bench by the apple-tree, and i shall be there in a moment." "beloved!" he exclaimed ardently. she shut the window slowly. for a moment he looked about him; then went lightly through the garden, and sat down on the bench under the apple-tree, near to the summer-house. at last he heard her footstep. he rose quickly to meet her, and as she came timidly to him, clasped her in his arms. "philip," she said, "this isn't right. you ought not to have come; you have broken your promise." "are you not glad to see me?" "oh, you know, you know that i'm glad to see you, but you shouldn't have come--hark! what's that?" they both held their breath, for there was a sound outside the garden wall. clac-clac! clac-clac!--a strange, uncanny footstep. it seemed to be hurrying away--clac-clac! clac-clac! "ah, i know," whispered guida: "it is dormy jamais. how foolish of me to be afraid!" "of course, of course," said philip--"dormy jamais, the man who never sleeps." "philip--if he saw us!" "foolish child, the garden wall is too high for that. besides--" "yes, philip?" "besides, you are my wife, guida!" "no, no, philip, no; not really so until all the world is told." "my beloved guida, what difference can that make?" she sighed and shook her head. "to me, philip, it is only that which makes it right--that the whole world knows. philip, i am so afraid of--of secrecy, and cheating." "nonsense-nonsense!" he answered. "poor little wood-bird, you're frightened at nothing at all. come and sit by me." he drew her close to him. her trembling presently grew less. hundreds of glow-worms were shimmering in the hedge. the grass-hoppers were whirring in the mielles beyond; a flutter of wings went by overhead. the leaves were rustling gently; a fresh wind was coming up from the sea upon the soft, fragrant dusk. they talked a little while in whispers, her hands in his, his voice soothing her, his low, hurried words giving her no time to think. but presently she shivered again, though her heart was throbbing hotly. "come into the summer-house, guida; you are cold, you are shivering." he rose, with his arm round her waist, raising her gently at the same time. "oh no, philip dear," she said, "i'm not really cold--i don't know what it is--" "but indeed you are cold," he answered. "there's a stiff south-easter rising, and your hands are like ice. come into the arbour for a minute. it's warm there, and then--then we'll say good-bye, sweetheart." his arm round her, he drew her with him to the summer-house, talking to her tenderly all the time. there was reassurance, comfort, loving care in his very tones. how brightly the stars shone, how clearly the music of the stream came over the hedge! with what lazy restfulness the distant all's well floated across the mielles from a ship at anchor in the tide-way, how like a slumber-song the wash of the sea rolled drowsily along the wind! how gracious the smell of the earth, drinking up the dew of the affluent air, which the sun, on the morrow, should turn into life-blood for the grass and trees and flowers! chapter xvii philip was gone. before breakfast was set upon the table, guida saw the narcissus sail round noirmont point and disappear. her face had taken on a new expression since yesterday. an old touch of dreaminess, of vague anticipation was gone--that look which belongs to youth, which feels the confident charm of the unknown future. life was revealed; but, together with joy, wonder and pain informed the revelation. a marvel was upon her. her life was linked to another's, she was a wife. she was no longer sole captain of herself. philip would signal, and she must come until either he or she should die. he had taken her hand, and she must never let it go; the breath of his being must henceforth give her new and healthy life, or inbreed a fever which should corrode the heart and burn away the spirit. young though she was, she realised it-but without defining it. the new-found knowledge was diffused in her character, expressed in her face. seldom had a day of guida's life been so busy. it seemed to her that people came and went far more than usual. she talked, she laughed a little, she answered back the pleasantries of the seafaring folk who passed her doorway or her garden. she was attentive to her grandfather; exact with her household duties. but all the time she was thinking-thinking--thinking. now and again she smiled, but at times too tears sprang to her eyes, to be quickly dried. more than once she drew in her breath with a quick, sibilant sound, as though some thought wounded her; and she flushed suddenly, then turned pale, then came to her natural colour again. among those who chanced to visit the cottage was maitresse aimable. she came to ask guida to go with her and jean to the island of sark, twelve miles away, where guida had never been. they would only be gone one night, and, as maitresse aimable said, the sieur de mauprat could very well make shift for once. the invitation came to guida like water to thirsty ground. she longed to get away from the town, to be where she could breathe; for all this day the earth seemed too small for breath: she gasped for the sea, to be alone there. to sail with jean touzel was practically to be alone, for maitresse aimable never talked; and jean knew guida's ways, knew when she wished to be quiet. in jersey phrase, he saw beyond his spectacles-great brass-rimmed things, giving a droll, childlike kind of wisdom to his red rotund face. having issued her invitation, maitresse aimable smiled placidly and seemed about to leave, when, all at once, without any warning, she lowered herself like a vast crate upon the veille, and sat there looking at guida. at first the grave inquiry of her look startled guida. she was beginning to know that sensitive fear assailing those tortured by a secret. how she loathed this secrecy! how guilty she now felt, where, indeed, no guilt was! she longed to call aloud her name, her new name, from the housetops. the voice of maitresse aimable roused her. her ponderous visitor had made a discovery which had yet been made by no other human being. her own absurd romance, her ancient illusion, had taught her to know when love lay behind another woman's face. and after her fashion, maitresse aimable loved jean touzel as it is given to few to love. "i was sixteen when i fell in love; you're seventeen--you," she said. "ah bah, so it goes!" guida's face crimsoned. what--how much did maitresse aimable know? by what necromancy had this fat, silent fisher-wife learned the secret which was the heart of her life, the soul of her being--which was philip? she was frightened, but danger made her cautious. "can you guess who it is?" she asked, without replying directly to the oblique charge. "it is not maitre ranulph," answered her friendly inquisitor; "it is not that m'sieu' detricand, the vaurien." guida flushed with annoyance. "it is not that farmer blampied, with fifty vergees, all potatoes; it is not m'sieu' janvrin, that bat'd'lagoule of an ecrivain. ah bah, so it goes!" "who is it, then?" persisted guida. "eh ben, that is the thing!" "how can you tell that one is in love, maitresse aimable? "persisted guida. the other smiled with a torturing placidity, then opened her mouth; but nothing came of it. she watched guida moving about the kitchen abstractedly. her eye wandered to the racllyi, with its flitches of bacon, to the dreschiaux and the sanded floor, to the great elizabethan oak chair, and at last back to guida, as though through her the lost voice might be charmed up again. the eyes of the two met now, fairly, firmly; and guida was conscious of a look in the other's face which she had never seen before. had then a new sight been given to herself? she saw and understood the look in maitresse aimable's face, and instantly knew it to be the same that was in her own. with a sudden impulse she dropped the bashin she was polishing, and, going over quickly, she silently laid her cheek against her old friend's. she could feel the huge breast heave, she felt the vast face turn hot, she was conscious of a voice struggling back to life, and she heard it say at last: "gatd'en'ale, rosemary tea cures a cough, but nothing cures the love--ah bah, so it goes!" "do you love jean?" whispered guida, not showing her face, but longing to hear the experience of another who suffered that joy called love. maitresse aimable's face grew hotter; she did not speak, but patted guida's back with her heavy hand and nodded complacently. "have you always loved him?" asked guida again, with an eager inquisition, akin to that of a wayside sinner turned chapel-going saint, hungry to hear what chanced to others when treading the primrose path. maitresse aimable again nodded, and her arm drew closer about guida. there was a slight pause, then came an unsophisticated question: "has jean always loved you?" a short silence, and then the voice said with the deliberate prudence of an unwilling witness: "it is not the man who wears the wedding-ring." then, as if she had been disloyal in even suggesting that jean might hold her lightly, she added, almost eagerly--an enthusiasm tempered by the pathos of a half-truth: "but my jean always sleeps at home." this larger excursion into speech gave her courage, and she said more; and even as guida listened hungrily--so soon had come upon her the apprehensions and wavering moods of loving woman!--she was wondering to hear this creature, considered so dull by all, speak as though out of a watchful and capable mind. what further maitresse aimable said was proof that if she knew little and spake little, she knew that little well; and if she had gathered meagrely from life, she had at least winnowed out some small handfuls of grain from the straw and chaff. at last her sagacity impelled her to say: "if a man's eyes won't see, elder-water can't make him; if he will--ah bah, glad and good!" both arms went round guida, and hugged her awkwardly. her voice came up but once more that morning. as she left guida in the doorway, she said with a last effort: "i will have one bead to pray for you, trejous." she showed her rosary, and, huguenot though she was, guida touched the bead reverently. "and if there is war, i will have two beads, trejous. a bi'tot--good-bye!" guida stood watching her from the doorway, and the last words of the fisher-wife kept repeating themselves through her brain: "and if there is war, i will have two beads, trejous." so, maitresse aimable knew she loved philip! how strange it was that one should read so truly without words spoken, or through seeing acts which reveal. she herself seemed to read maitresse aimable all at once--read her by virtue, and in the light, of true love, the primitive and consuming feeling in the breast of each for a man. were not words necessary for speech after all? but here she stopped short suddenly; for if love might find and read love, why was it she needed speech of philip? why was it her spirit kept beating up against the hedge beyond which his inner self was, and, unable to see that beyond, needed reassurance by words, by promises and protestations? all at once she was angry with herself for thinking thus concerning philip. of course philip loved her deeply. had she not seen the light of true love in his eyes, and felt the arms of love about her? suddenly she shuddered and grew bitter, and a strange rebellion broke loose in her. why had philip failed to keep his promise not to see her again after the marriage, till he should return from portsmouth? it was selfish, painfully, terribly selfish of him. why, even though she had been foolish in her request--why had he not done as she wished? was that love--was it love to break the first promise he had ever made to his wife? yet she excused him to herself. men were different from women, and men did not understand what troubled a woman's heart and spirit; they were not shaken by the same gusts of emotion; they--they were not so fine; they did not think so deeply on what a woman, when she loves, thinks always, and acts upon according to her thought. if philip were only here to resolve these fears, these perplexities, to quiet the storm in her! and yet, could he--could he? for now she felt that this storm was rooting up something very deep and radical in her. it frightened her, but for the moment she fought it passionately. she went into her garden; and here among her animals and her flowers it seemed easier to be gay of heart; and she laughed a little, and was most tender and pretty with her grandfather when he came home from spending the afternoon with the chevalier. in this manner the first day of her marriage passed--in happy reminiscence and in vague foreboding; in affection yet in reproach as the secret wife; and still as the loving, distracted girl, frightened at her own bitterness, but knowing it to be justified. the late evening was spent in gaiety with her grandfather and the chevalier; but at night when she went to bed she could not sleep. she tossed from side to side; a hundred thoughts came and went. she grew feverish, her breath choked her, and she got up and opened the window. it was clear, bright moonlight, and from where she was she could see the mielles and the ocean and the star-sown sky above and beyond. there she sat and thought and thought till morning. chapter xviii at precisely the same moment in the morning two boats set sail from the south coast of jersey: one from grouville bay, and one from the harbour of st. heliers. both were bound for the same point; but the first was to sail round the east coast of the island, and the second round the west coast. the boat leaving grouville bay would have on her right the ecrehos and the coast of france, with the dirouilles in her course; the other would have the wide atlantic on her left, and the paternosters in her course. the two converging lines should meet at the island of sark. the boat leaving grouville bay was a yacht carrying twelve swivel-guns, bringing admiralty despatches to the channel islands. the boat leaving st. heliers harbour was a new yawl-rigged craft owned by jean touzel. it was the fruit of ten years' labour, and he called her the hardi biaou, which, in plain english, means "very beautiful." this was the third time she had sailed under jean's hand. she carried two carronades, for war with france was in the air, and it was jean's whim to make a show of preparation, for, as he said: "if the war-dogs come, my pups can bark too. if they don't, why, glad and good, the hardi biaou is big enough to hold the cough-drops." the business of the yacht dorset was important that was why so small a boat was sent on the admiralty's affairs. had she been a sloop she might have attracted the attention of a french frigate or privateer wandering the seas in the interests of vive la nation! the business of the yawl was quite unimportant. jean touzel was going to sark with kegs of wine and tobacco for the seigneur, and to bring over whatever small cargo might be waiting for jersey. the yacht dorset had aboard her the reverend lorenzo dow, an old friend of her commander. he was to be dropped at sark, and was to come back with jean touzel in the hardi biaou, the matter having been arranged the evening before in the vier marchi. the saucy yawl had aboard maitresse aimable, guida, and a lad to assist jean in working the sails. guida counted as one of the crew, for there was little in the handling of a boat she did not know. as the hardi biaou was leaving the harbour of st. heliers, jean told guida that mr. dow was to join them on the return journey. she had a thrill of excitement, for this man was privy to her secret, he was connected with her life history. but before the little boat passed st. brelade's bay she was lost in other thoughts: in picturing philip on the narcissus, in inwardly conning the ambitious designs of his career. what he might yet be, who could tell? she had read more than a little of the doings of great naval commanders, both french and british. she knew how simple midshipmen had sometimes become admirals, and afterwards peers of the realm. suddenly a new thought came to her. suppose that philip should rise to high places, would she be able to follow? what had she seen--what did she know--what social opportunities had been hers? how would she fit with an exalted station? yet philip had said that she could take her place anywhere with grace and dignity; and surely philip knew. if she were gauche or crude in manners, he would not have cared for her; if she were not intelligent, he would scarcely have loved her. of course she had read french and english to some purpose; she could speak spanish--her grandfather had taught her that; she understood italian fairly--she had read it aloud on sunday evenings with the chevalier. then there were corneille, shakespeare, petrarch, cervantes--she had read them all; and even wace, the old norman trouvere, whose roman de rou she knew almost by heart. was she so very ignorant? there was only one thing to do: she must interest herself in what interested philip; she must read what he read; she must study naval history; she must learn every little thing about a ship of war. then philip would be able to talk with her of all he did at sea, and she would understand. when, a few days ago, she had said to him that she did not know how she was going to be all that his wife ought to be, he had answered her: "all i ask is that you be your own sweet self, for it is just you that i want, you with your own thoughts and imaginings, and not a guida who has dropped her own way of looking at things to take on some one else's--even mine. it's the people who try to be clever who never are; the people who are clever never think of trying to be." was philip right? was she really, in some way, a little bit clever? she would like to believe so, for then she would be a better companion for him. after all, how little she knew of philip--now, why did that thought always come up! it made her shudder. they two would really have to begin with the a b c of understanding. to understand was a passion, it was breathing and life to her. she would never, could never, be satisfied with skimming the surface of life as the gulls out there skimmed the water. . . . ah, how beautiful the morning was, and how the bracing air soothed her feverishness! all this sky, and light, and uplifting sea were hers, they fed her with their strength--they were all so companionable. since philip had gone--and that was but four days ago--she had sat down a dozen times to write to him, but each time found she could not. she, drew back from it because she wanted to empty out her heart, and yet, somehow, she dared not. she wanted to tell philip all the feelings that possessed her; but how dared she write just what she felt: love and bitterness, joy and indignation, exaltation and disappointment, all in one? how was it these could all exist in a woman's heart at once? was it because love was greater than all, deeper than all, overcame all, forgave all? and was that what women felt and did always? was that their lot, their destiny? must they begin in blind faith, then be plunged into the darkness of disillusion, shaken by the storm of emotion, taste the sting in the fruit of the tree of knowledge--and go on again the same, yet not the same? more or less incoherently these thoughts flitted through guida's mind. as yet her experiences were too new for her to fasten securely upon their meaning. in a day or two she would write to philip freely and warmly of her love and of her hopes; for, maybe, by that time nothing but happiness would be left in the caldron of feeling. there was a packet going to england in three days--yes, she would wait for that. and philip--alas! a letter from him could not reach her for at least a fortnight yet; and then in another month after that he would be with her, and she would be able to tell the whole world that she was the wife of captain philip d'avranche, of the good ship araminta--for that he was to be when he came again. she was not sad now, indeed she was almost happy, for her thoughts had brought her so close to philip that she could feel his blue eyes looking at her, the strong clasp of his hand. she could almost touch the brown hair waving back carelessly from the forehead, untouched by powder, in the fashion of the time; and she could hear his cheery laugh quite plainly, so complete was the illusion. st. ouen's bay, l'etacq, plemont, dropped behind them as they sailed. they drew on to where the rocks of the paternosters foamed to the unquiet sea. far over between the nez du guet and the sprawling granite pack of the dirouilles, was the admiralty yacht winging to the nor'-west. beyond it again lay the coast of france, the tall white cliffs, the dark blue smoky curve ending in cap de la hague. to-day there was something new in this picture of the coast of france. against the far-off sands were some little black spots, seemingly no bigger than a man's hand. again and again jean touzel had eyed these moving specks with serious interest; and maitresse aimable eyed jean, for jean never looked so often at anything without good reason. if, perchance, he looked three times at her consecutively, she gaped with expectation, hoping that he would tell her that her face was not so red to-day as usual--a mark of rare affection. at last guida noticed jean's look. "what is it that you see, maitre jean?" she said. "little black wasps, i think, ma'm'selle-little black wasps that sting." guida did not understand. jean gave a curious cackle, and continued: "ah, those wasps--they have a sting so nasty!" he paused an instant, then he added in a lower voice, and not quite so gaily: "yon is the way that war begins." guida's fingers suddenly clinched rigidly upon the tiller. "war? do--do you think that's a french fleet, maitre jean?" "steadee--steadee-keep her head up, ma'm'selle," he answered, for guida had steered unsteadily for the instant. "steadee--shale ben! that's right--i remember twenty years ago the black wasps they fly on the coast of france like that. who can tell now?" he shrugged his shoulders. "p'rhaps they are coum out to play, but see you, when there is trouble in the nest it is my notion that wasps come out to sting. look at france now, they all fight each other there, ma fuifre! when folks begin to slap faces at home, look out when they get into the street. that is when the devil have a grand fete." guida's face grew paler as he spoke. the eyes of maitresse aimable were fixed on her now, and unconsciously the ponderous good-wife felt in that warehouse she called her pocket for her rosary. an extra bead was there for guida, and one for another than guida. but maltresse aimable did more: she dived into the well of silence for her voice; and for the first time in her life she showed anger with jean. as her voice came forth she coloured, her cheeks expanded, and the words sallied out in puffs: "nannin, jean, you smell shark when it is but herring. you cry wasp when the critchett sing. i will believe war when i see the splinters fly-me!" jean looked at his wife in astonishment. that was the longest speech he had ever heard her make. it was also the first time that her rasp of criticism had ever been applied to him, and with such asperity too. he could not make it out. he looked from his wife to guida; then, suddenly arrested by the look in her face, he scratched his shaggy head in despair, and moved about in his seat. "sit you still, jean," said his wife sharply; "you're like peas on a hot griddle." this confused jean beyond recovery, for never in his life had aimable spoken to him like that. he saw there was something wrong, and he did not know whether to speak or hold his tongue; or, as he said to himself, he "didn't know which eye to wink." he adjusted his spectacles, and, pulling himself together, muttered: "smoke of thunder, what's all this?" guida wasn't a wisp of quality to shiver with terror at the mere mention of war with france; but ba su, thought jean, there was now in her face a sharp, fixed look of pain, in her eyes a bewildered anxiety. jean scratched his head still more. nothing particular came of that. there was no good trying to work the thing out suddenly, he wasn't clever enough. then out of an habitual good-nature he tried to bring better weather fore and aft. "eh ben," said he, "in the dark you can't tell a wasp from a honey-bee till he lights on you; and that's too far off there"--he jerked a finger towards the french shore--"to be certain sure. but if the wasp nip, you make him pay for it, the head and the tail--yes, i think -me. . . . there's the eperquerie," he added quickly, nodding in front of him. the island of sark lifted a green bosom above her perpendicular cliffs, with the pride of an affluent mother among her brood. dowered by sun and softened by a delicate haze like an exquisite veil of modesty, this youngest daughter of the isles clustered with her kinsfolk in the emerald archipelago between the great seas. the outlines of the coast grew plainer as the hardi biaou drew nearer and nearer. from end to end there was no harbour upon this southern side. there was no roadway, as it seemed no pathway at all up the overhanging cliffs-ridges of granite and grey and green rock, belted with mist, crowned by sun, and fretted by the milky, upcasting surf. little islands, like outworks before it, crouched slumberously to the sea, as a dog lays its head in its paws and hugs the ground close, with vague, soft-blinking eyes. by the shore the air was white with sea-gulls flying and circling, rising and descending, shooting up straight into the air; their bodies smooth and long like the body of a babe in white samite, their feathering tails spread like a fan, their wings expanding on the ambient air. in the tall cliffs were the nests of dried seaweed, fastened to the edge of a rocky bracket on lofty ledges, the little ones within piping to the little ones without. every point of rock had its sentinel gull, looking-looking out to sea like some watchful defender of a mystic city. piercing might be the cries of pain or of joy from the earth, more piercing were their cries; dark and dreadful might be the woe of those who went down to the sea in ships, but they shrilled on unheeding, their yellow beaks still yellowing in the sun, keeping their everlasting watch and ward. now and again other birds, dark, quick-winged, low-flying, shot in among the white companies of sea-gulls, stretching their long necks, and turning their swift, cowardly eyes here and there, the cruel beak extended, the body gorged with carrion. black marauders among blithe birds of peace and joy, they watched like sable spirits near the nests, or on some near sea rocks, sombre and alone, blinked evilly at the tall bright cliffs and the lightsome legions nestling there. these swart loiterers by the happy nests of the young were like spirits of fate who might not destroy, who had no power to harm the living, yet who could not be driven forth: the ever-present death-heads at the feast, the impressive acolytes by the altars of destiny. as the hardi biaou drew near the lofty, inviolate cliffs, there opened up sombre clefts and caverns, honeycombing the island at all points of the compass. she slipped past rugged pinnacles, like buttresses to the island, here trailed with vines, valanced with shrubs of unnameable beauty, and yonder shrivelled and bare like the skin of an elephant. some rocks, indeed, were like vast animals round which molten granite had been poured, preserving them eternally. the heads of great dogs, like the dogs of ossian, sprang out in profile from the repulsing mainland; stupendous gargoyles grinned at them from dark points of excoriated cliff. farther off, the face of a battered sphinx stared with unheeding look into the vast sea and sky beyond. from the dark depths of mystic crypts came groanings, like the roaring of lions penned beside the caves of martyrs. jean had startled guida with his suggestions of war between england and france. though she longed to have philip win glory in some great battle, yet her first natural thought was of danger to the man she loved--and the chance too of his not coming back to her from portsmouth. but now as she looked at this scene before her, there came again to her face the old charm of blitheness. the tides of temperament in her were fast to flow and quick to ebb. the reaction from pain was in proportion to her splendid natural health. her lips smiled. for what can long depress the youthful and the loving when they dream that they are entirely beloved? lands and thrones may perish, plague and devastation walk abroad with death, misery and beggary crawl naked to the doorway, and crime cower in the hedges; but to the egregious egotism of young love there are only two identities bulking in the crowded universe. to these immensities all other beings are audacious who dream of being even comfortable and obscure--happiness would be a presumption; as though fate intended each living human being at some one moment to have the whole world to himself. and who shall cry out against that egotism with which all are diseased? so busy was guida with her own thoughts that she scarcely noticed they had changed their course, and were skirting the coast westerly, whereby to reach havre gosselin on the other side of the island. there on the shore above lay the seigneurie, the destination of the hardi biaou. as they passed the western point of the island, and made their course easterly by a channel between rocky bulwarks opening havre gosselin, they suddenly saw a brig rounding the eperquerie. she was making to the south-east under full sail. her main and mizzen masts were not visible, and her colours could not be seen, but jean's quick eye had lighted on something which made him cast apprehensive glances at his wife and guida. there was a gun in the stern port-hole of the vanishing brig; and he also noted that it was run out for action. his swift glance at his wife and guida assured him that they had not noticed the gun. jean's brain began working with unusual celerity. he was certain that the brig was a french sloop or a privateer. in other circumstances, that in itself might not have given him much trouble of mind, for more than once french frigates had sailed round the channel isles in insulting strength and mockery; but at this moment every man knew that france and england were only waiting to see who should throw the ball first and set the red game going. twenty french frigates could do little harm to the island of sark; a hundred men could keep off an army and navy there; but jean knew that the admiralty yacht dorset was sailing at this moment within half a league of the eperquerie. he would stake his life that the brig was french and hostile and knew it also. at all costs he must follow and learn the fate of the yacht. if he landed at havre gosselin and crossed the island on foot, whatever was to happen would be over and done, and that did not suit the book of jean touzel. more than once he had seen a little fighting, and more than once shared in it. if there was to be a fight--he looked affectionately at his carronades--then he wanted to be within seeing or striking distance. instead of running into havre gosselin, he set for the bec du nez, the eastern point of the island. his object was to land upon the rocks of the eperquerie, where the women would be safe whatever befell. the tide was running strong round the point, and the surf was heavy, so that once or twice the boat was almost overturned; but jean had measured well the currents and the wind. this was one of the most exciting moments in his life, for, as they rounded the bec du nez, there was the dorset going about to make for guernsey, and the brig, under full sail, bearing down upon her. even as they rounded the point, up ran the tricolour to the brig's mizzen-mast, and the militant shouts of the french sailors came over the water. too late had the little yacht with her handful of guns seen the danger and gone about. the wind was fair for her; but it was as fair for the brig, able to outsail her twice over. as the hardi biaou neared the landing-place of the eperquerie, a gun was fired from the privateer across the bows of the dorset, and guida realised what was happening. as they landed another shot was fired, then came a broadside. guida put her hands before her eyes, and when she looked again the main-mast of the yacht was gone. and now from the heights of sark above there rang out a cry from the lips of the affrighted islanders: "war--war--war--war!" guida sank down upon the rock, and her face dropped into her hands. she trembled violently. somehow all at once, and for the first time in her life, there was borne in upon her a feeling of awful desolation and loneliness. she was alone--she was alone--she was alone that was the refrain of her thoughts. the cry of war rang along the cliff tops; and war would take philip from her. perhaps she would never see him again. the horror of it, the pity of it, the peril of it. shot after shot the twelve-pounders of the frenchman drove like dun hail at the white timbers of the yacht, and her masts and spars were flying. the privateer now came drawing down to where she lay lurching. a hand touched guida upon the shoulder. "cheer thee, my dee-ar," said maitresse aimable's voice. below, jean touzel had eyes only for this sea-fight before him, for, despite the enormous difference, the englishmen were now fighting their little craft for all that she was capable. but the odds were terribly against her, though she had the windward side, and the firing of the privateer was bad. the carronades on her flush decks were replying valiantly to the twelve-pounders of the brig. at last a chance shot carried away her mizzenmast, and another dismounted her single great gun, killing a number of men. the carronades, good for only a few discharges, soon left her to the fury of her assailant, and presently the dorset was no better than a battered raisin-box. her commander had destroyed his despatches, and nothing remained now but to be sunk or surrender. in not more than twenty minutes from the time the first shot was fired, the commander and his brave little crew yielded to the foe, and the dorset's flag was hauled down. when her officers and men were transferred to the frenchman, her one passenger and guest, the rev. lorenzo dow, passed calmly from the gallant little wreck to the deck of the privateer, with a finger between the leaves of his book of meditations. with as much equanimity as he would have breakfasted with a bishop, made breaches of the rubric, or drunk from a sailor's black-jack, he went calmly into captivity in france, giving no thought to what he left behind; quite heedless that his going would affect for good or ill the destiny of the young wife of philip d'avranche. guida watched the yacht go down, and the brig bear away towards france where those black wasps of war were as motes against the white sands. then she remembered that there had gone with it one of the three people in the world who knew her secret, the man who had married her to philip. she shivered a little, she scarcely knew why, for it did not then seem of consequence to her whether mr. dow went or stayed, though he had never given her the marriage certificate. indeed, was it not better he should go? thereby one less would know her secret. but still an undefined fear possessed her. "cheer thee, cheer thee, my dee-ar, my sweet dormitte," said maitresse aimable, patting her shoulder. "it cannot harm thee, ba su! 'tis but a flash in the pan." guida's first impulse was to throw herself into the arms of the slowtongued, great-hearted woman who hung above her like a cloud of mercy, and tell her whole story. but no, she would keep her word to philip, till philip came again. her love--the love of the young, lonely wife, must be buried deep in her own heart until he appeared and gave her the right to speak. jean was calling to them. they rose to go. guida looked about her. was it all a dream-all that had happened to her, and around her? the world was sweet to look upon, and yet was it true that here before her eyes there had been war, and that out of war peril must come to her. a week ago she was free as air, happy as healthy body, truthful mind, simple nature, and tender love can make a human being. she was then only a young, young girl. to-day-she sighed. long after they put out to sea again she could still hear the affrighted cry of the peasants from the cliff-or was it only the plaintive echo of her own thoughts? "war--war--war--war!" in france--near five months after chapter xix "a moment, monsieur le duc." the duke turned at the door, and looked with listless inquiry into the face of the minister of marine, who, picking up an official paper from his table, ran an eye down it, marked a point with the sharp corner of his snuff-box, and handed it over to his visitor, saying: "our roster of english prisoners taken in the action off brest." the duke, puzzled, lifted his glass and scanned the roll mechanically. "no, no, duke, just where i have marked," interposed the minister. "my dear monsieur dalbarade," remarked the duke a little querulously, "i do not see what interest--" he stopped short, however, looked closer at the document, and then lowering it in a sort of amazement, seemed about to speak; but, instead, raised the paper again and fixed his eyes intently on the spot indicated by the minister. "most curious," he said after a moment, making little nods of his head towards dalbarade; "my own name--and an english prisoner, you say?" "precisely so; and he gave our fellows some hard knocks before his frigate went on the reefs." "strange that the name should be my own. i never heard of an english branch of our family." a quizzical smile passed over the face of the minister, adding to his visitor's mystification. "but suppose he were english, yet french too?" he rejoined. "i fail to understand the entanglement," answered the duke stiffly. "he is an englishman whose name and native language are french--he speaks as good french as your own." the duke peevishly tapped a chair with his stick. "i am no reader of riddles, monsieur," he said acidly, although eager to know more concerning this englishman of the same name as himself, ruler of the sovereign duchy of bercy. "shall i bid him enter, prince?" asked the minister. the duke's face relaxed a little, for the truth was, at this moment of his long life he was deeply concerned with his own name and all who bore it. "is he here then?" he asked, nodding assent. "in the next room," answered the minister, turning to a bell and ringing. "i have him here for examination, and was but beginning when i was honoured by your highness's presence." he bowed politely, yet there was, too, a little mockery in the bow, which did not escape the duke. these were days when princes received but little respect in france. a subaltern entered, received an order, and disappeared. the duke withdrew to the embrasure of a window, and immediately the prisoner was gruffly announced. the young englishman stood quietly waiting, his quick eyes going from dalbarade to the wizened figure by the window, and back again to the minister. his look carried both calmness and defiance, but the defiance came only from a sense of injury and unmerited disgrace. "monsieur," said the minister with austerity, "in your further examination we shall need to repeat some questions." the prisoner nodded indifferently, and for a brief space there was silence. the duke stood by the window, the minister by his table, the prisoner near the door. suddenly the prisoner, with an abrupt motion of the hand towards two chairs, said with an assumption of ordinary politeness: "will you not be seated?" the remark was so odd in its coolness and effrontery, that the duke chuckled audibly. the minister was completely taken aback. he glanced stupidly at the two chairs--the only ones in the room--and at the prisoner. then the insolence of the thing began to work upon him, and he was about to burst forth, when the duke came forward, and politely moving a chair near to the young commander, said: "my distinguished compliments, monsieur le capitaine. i pray you accept this chair." with quiet self-possession and a matter-of-course air the prisoner bowed politely, and seated himself, then with a motion of the hand backward towards the door, said to the duke: "i've been standing five hours with some of those moutons in the ante-room. my profound thanks to monseigneur." touching the angry minister on the arm, the duke said quietly: "dear monsieur, will you permit me a few questions to the prisoner?" at that instant there came a tap at the door, and an orderly entered with a letter to the minister, who glanced at it hurriedly, then turned to the prisoner and the duke, as though in doubt what to do. "i will be responsible for the prisoner, if you must leave us," said the duke at once. "for a little, for a little--a matter of moment with the minister of war," answered dalbarade, nodding, and with an air of abstraction left the room. the duke withdrew to the window again, and seated himself in the embrasure, at some little distance from the englishman, who at once got up and brought his chair closer. the warm sunlight of spring, streaming through the window, was now upon his pale face, and strengthened it, giving it fulness and the eye fire. "how long have you been a prisoner, monsieur?" asked the duke, at the same time acknowledging the other's politeness with a bow. "since march, monseigneur." "monseigneur again--a man of judgment," said the duke to himself, pleased to have his exalted station recognised. "h'm, and it is now june--four months, monsieur. you have been well used, monsieur?" "vilely, monseigneur," answered the other; "a shipwrecked enemy should never be made prisoner, or at least he should be enlarged on parole; but i have been confined like a pirate in a sink of a jail." "of what country are you?" raising his eyebrows in amazement the young man answered: "i am an englishman, monseigneur." "monsieur is of england, then?" "monseigneur, i am an english officer." "you speak french well, monsieur." "which serves me well in france, as you see, monseigneur." the duke was a trifle nettled. "where were you born, monsieur?" there was a short pause, and then the prisoner, who had enjoyed the other's perplexity, said: "on the isle of jersey, monseigneur." the petulant look passed immediately from the face of the duke; the horizon was clear at once. "ah, then, you are french, monsieur!" "my flag is the english flag; i was born a british subject, and i shall die one," answered the other steadily. "the sentiment sounds estimable," answered the duke; "but as for life and death, and what we are or what we may be, we are the sport of fate." his brow clouded. "i myself was born under a monarchy; i shall probably die under a republic. i was born a frenchman; i may die--" his tone had become low and cynical, and he broke off suddenly, as though he had said more than he meant. "then you are a norman, monsieur," he added in a louder tone. "once all jerseymen were normans, and so were many englishmen, monseigneur." "i come of norman stock too, monsieur," remarked the duke graciously, yet eyeing the young man keenly. "monseigneur has not the kindred advantage of being english?" added the prisoner dryly. the duke protested with a deprecatory wave of the fingers and a flash of the sharp eyes, and then, after a slight pause, said: "what is your name, monsieur?" "philip d'avranche," was the brief reply; then with droll impudence: "and monseigneur's, by monseigneur's leave?" the duke smiled, and that smile relieved the sourness, the fret of a face which had care and discontent written upon every line of it. it was a face that had never known happiness. it had known diversion, however, and unusual diversion it knew at this moment. "my name," he answered with a penetrating quizzical look, "--my name is philip d'avranche." the young man's quick, watchful eyes fixed themselves like needles on the duke's face. through his brain there ran a succession of queries and speculations, and dominating them all one clear question-was he to gain anything by this strange conversation? who was this great man with a name the same as his own, this crabbed nobleman with skin as yellow as an orange, and body like an orange squeezed dry? he surely meant him no harm, however, for flashes of kindliness had lighted the shrivelled face as he talked. his look was bent in piercing comment upon philip, who, trying hard to solve the mystery, now made a tentative rejoinder to his strange statement. rising from his chair and bowing, he said, with shrewd foreknowledge of the effect of his words: "i had not before thought my own name of such consequence." the old man grunted amiably. "my faith, the very name begets a towering conceit wherever it goes," he answered, and he brought his stick down on the floor with such vehemence that the emerald and ruby rings rattled on his shrunken fingers. "be seated--cousin," he said with dry compliment, for philip had remained standing, as if with the unfeigned respect of a cadet in the august presence of the head of his house. it was a sudden and bold suggestion, and it was not lost on the duke. the aged nobleman was too keen an observer not to see the designed flattery, but he was in a mood when flattery was palatable, seeing that many of his own class were arrayed against him for not having joined the army of the vendee; and that the revolutionists, with whom he had compromised, for the safety of his lands of d'avranche and his duchy of bercy, regarded him with suspicion. between the two, the old man--at heart most profoundly a royalist--bided his time, in some peril but with no fear. the spirit of this young englishman of his own name pleased him; the flattery, patent as it was, gratified him, for in revolutionary france few treated him with deference now. even the minister of marine, with whom he was on good terms, called him "citizen" at times. all at once it flashed on the younger man that this must be the prince d'avranche, duc de bercy, of that family of d'avranche from which his own came in long descent--even from the days of rollo, duke of normandy. he recalled on the instant the token of fealty of the ancient house of d'avranche--the offering of a sword. "your serene highness," he said with great deference and as great tact, "i must first offer my homage to the prince d'avranche, duc de bercy--" then with a sudden pause, and a whimsical look, he added: "but, indeed, i had forgotten, they have taken away my sword!" "we shall see," answered the prince, well pleased, "we shall see about that sword. be seated." then, after a short pause: "tell me now, monsieur, of your family, of your ancestry." his eyes were bent on philip with great intentness, and his thin lips tightened in some unaccountable agitation. philip instantly responded. he explained how in the early part of the thirteenth century, after the great crusade against the albigenses, a cadet of the house of d'avranche had emigrated to england, and had come to place and honour under henry iii, who gave to the son of this d'avranche certain tracts of land in jersey, where he settled. philip was descended in a direct line from this same receiver of king's favours, and was now the only representative of his family. while philip spoke the duke never took eyes from his face--that face so facile in the display of feeling or emotion. the voice also had a lilt of health and vitality which rang on the ears of age pleasantly. as he listened he thought of his eldest son, partly imbecile, all but a lusus naturae, separated from his wife immediately after marriage, through whom there could never be succession--he thought of him, and for the millionth time in his life winced in impotent disdain. he thought too of his beloved second son, lying in a soldier's grave in macedonia; of the buoyant resonance of that by-gone voice, of the soldierly good spirits like to the good spirits of the prisoner before him, and "his heart yearned towards the young man exceedingly." if that second son had but lived there would be now no compromising with this republican government of france; he would be fighting for the white flag with the golden lilies over in the vendee. "your ancestors were mine, then," remarked the duke gravely, after a pause, "though i had not heard of that emigration to england. however --however! come, tell me of the engagement in which you lost your ship," he added hurriedly in a low tone. he was now so intent that he did not stir in his seat, but sat rigidly still, regarding philip kindly. something in the last few moments' experience had loosened the puckered skin, softened the crabbed look in the face, and philip had no longer doubt of his friendly intentions. "i had the frigate araminta, twenty-four guns, a fortnight out from portsmouth," responded philip at once. "we fell in with a french frigate, thirty guns. she was well to leeward of us, and the araminta bore up under all sail, keen for action. the frenchman was as ready as ourselves for a brush, and tried to get the weather of us, but, failing, she shortened sail and gallantly waited for us. the araminta overhauled her on the weather quarter, and hailed. she responded with cheers and defiance--as sturdy a foe as man could wish. we lost no time in getting to work, and, both running before the wind, we fired broadsides as we cracked on. it was tit-for-tat for a while with splinters flying and neither of us in the eye of advantage, but at last the araminta shot away the main-mast and wheel of the niobe, and she wallowed like a tub in the trough of the sea. we bore down on her, and our carronades raked her like a comb. then we fell thwart her hawse, and tore her up through her bowline-ports with a couple of thirty-two-pounders. but before we could board her she veered, lurched, and fell upon us, carrying away our foremast. we cut clear of the tangle, and were making once more to board her, when i saw to windward two french frigates bearing down on us under full sail. and then--" the prince exclaimed in surprise: "i had not heard of this," he said. "they did not tell the world of those odds against you." "odds and to spare, monsieur le due! we had had all we could manage in the niobe, though she was now disabled, and we could hurt her no more. if the others came up on our weather we should be chewed like a bone in a mastiff's jaws. if she must fight again, the araminta would be little fit for action till we cleared away the wreckage; so i sheered off to make all sail. we ran under courses with what canvas we had, and got away with a fair breeze and a good squall whitening to windward, while our decks were cleared for action again. the guns on the main-deck had done good service and kept their places. on the quarter-deck and fo'castle there was more amiss, but as i watched the frigates overhauling us i took heart of grace still. there was the creaking and screaming of the carronade-slides, the rattling of the carriages of the long twelvepounders amidships as they were shotted and run out again, the thud of the carpenters' hammers as the shot-holes were plugged--good sounds in the ears of a fighter--" "of a d'avranche--of a d'avranche!" interposed the prince. "we were in no bad way, and my men were ready for another brush with our enemies, everything being done that could be done, everything in its place," continued philip. "when the frigates were a fair gunshot off, i saw that the squall was overhauling us faster than they. this meant good fortune if we wished escape, bad luck if we would rather fight. but i had no time to think of that, for up comes shoreham, my lieutenant, with a face all white. 'for god's sake, sir,' says he, 'shoal water-shoal water! we're ashore.' so much, monsieur le prince, for admiralty charts and soundings! it's a hateful thing to see--the light green water, the deadly sissing of the straight narrow ripple like the grooves of a washboard: and a ship's length ahead the water breaking over the reefs, two frigates behind ready to eat us. "up we came to the wind, the sheets were let run, and away flew the halyards. all to no purpose, for a minute later we came broadside on the reef, and were gored on a pinnacle of rock. the end wasn't long in coming. the araminta lurched off the reef on the swell. we watched our chance as she rolled, and hove overboard our broadside of long twelvepounders. but it was no use. the swishing of the water as it spouted from the scuppers was a deal louder than the clang of the chain-pumps. it didn't last long. the gale spilled itself upon us, and the araminta, sick and spent, slowly settled down. the last i saw of her"--philip raised his voice as though he would hide what he felt behind an unsentimental loudness--"was the white pennant at the main-top gallant masthead. a little while, and then i didn't see it, and--and so good-bye to my first command! then"--he smiled ironically--"then i was made prisoner by the french frigates, and have been closely confined ever since, against every decent principle of warfare. and now here i am, monsieur le duc." the duke had listened with an immovable attention, the grey eyebrows twitching now and then, the arid face betraying a grim enjoyment. when philip had finished, he still sat looking at him with steady slowblinking eyes, as though unwilling to break the spell the tale had thrown round him. but an inquisition in the look, a slight cocking of the head as though weighing important things, the ringed fingers softly drumming on the stick before him--all these told philip that something was at stake concerning himself. the duke seemed about to speak, when the door of the room opened and the minister of marine entered. the duke, rising and courteously laying a hand on his arm, drew him over to the window, and engaged him in whispered conversation, of which the subject seemed unwelcome to the minister, for now and then he interrupted sharply. as the two stood fretfully debating, the door of the room again opened. there appeared an athletic, adventurous-looking officer in brilliant uniform who was smiling at something called after him from the antechamber. his blue coat was spick and span and very gay with double embroidery at the collar, coat-tails, and pockets. his white waistcoat and trousers were spotless; his netted sash of blue with its stars on the silver tassels had a look of studied elegance. the black three-cornered hat, broidered with gold, and adorned with three ostrich tips of red and a white and blue aigrette, was, however, the glory of his bravery. he seemed young to be a general of division, for such his double embroideries and aigrette proclaimed him. he glanced at philip, and replied to his salute with a half-quizzical smile on his proud and forceful face. "dalbarade, dalbarade," said he to the minister, "i have but an hour--ah, monsieur le prince!" he added suddenly, as the latter came hurriedly towards him, and, grasping his hand warmly, drew him over to dalbarade at the window. philip now knew beyond doubt that he was the subject of debate, for all the time that the duke in a low tone, half cordial, half querulous, spoke to the new-comer, the latter let his eyes wander curiously towards philip. that he was an officer of great importance was to be seen from the deference paid him by dalbarade. all at once he made a polite gesture towards the duke, and, facing the minister, said in a cavalier-like tone, and with a touch of patronage: "yes, yes, dalbarade; it is of no consequence, and i myself will be surety for both." then turning to the nobleman, he added: "we are beginning to square accounts, duke. last time we met i had a large favour of you, and to-day you have a small favour of me. pray introduce your kinsman here, before you take him with you," and he turned squarely towards philip. philip could scarcely believe his ears. the duke's kinsman! had the duke then got his release on the ground that they were of kin--a kinship which, even to be authentic, must go back seven centuries for proof? yet here he was being introduced to the revolutionary general as "my kinsman of the isles of normandy." here, too, was the same general grandjon-larisse applauding him on his rare fortune to be thus released on parole through the duc de bercy, and quoting with a laugh, half sneer and half raillery, the old norman proverb: "a norman dead a thousand years cries haro! haro! if you tread on his grave." so saying, he saluted the duke with a liberal flourish of the hand and a friendly bow, and turned away to dalbarade. a half-hour later philip was outside with the duke, walking slowly through the court-yard to an open gateway, where waited a carriage with unliveried coachman and outriders. no word was spoken till they entered the carriage and were driven swiftly away. "whither now, your highness?" asked philip. "to the duchy," answered the other shortly, and relapsed into sombre meditation. chapter xx the castle of the prince d'avranche, duc de bercy, was set upon a vast rock, and the town of bercy huddled round the foot of it and on great granite ledges some distance up. with fifty defenders the castle, on its lofty pedestal, might have resisted as many thousands; and, indeed, it had done so more times than there were rubies in the rings of the present duke, who had rescued captain philip d'avranche from the clutches of the red government. upon the castle, with the flag of the duchy, waved the republican tricolour, where for a thousand years had floated a royal banner. when france's great trouble came to her, and the nobles fled, or went to fight for the king in the vendee, the old duke, with a dreamy indifference to the opinion of europe, had proclaimed alliance with the new government. he felt himself privileged in being thus selfish; and he had made the alliance that he might pursue, unchecked, the one remaining object of his life. this object had now grown from a habit into a passion. it was now his one ambition to arrange a new succession excluding the vaufontaines, a detested branch of the bercy family. there had been an ancient feud between his family and the vaufontaines, whose rights to the succession, after his eldest son, were to this time paramount. for three years past he had had a whole monastery of benedictine monks at work to find some collateral branch from which he might take a successor to leopold john, his imbecile heir--but to no purpose. in more than a little the duke was superstitious, and on the day when he met philip d'avranche in the chamber of m. dalbarade he had twice turned back after starting to make the visit, so great was his dislike to pay homage to the revolutionary minister. he had nerved himself to the distasteful duty, however, and had gone. when he saw the name of the young english prisoner--his own name--staring him in the face, he had had such a thrill as a miracle might have sent through the veins of a doubting christian. since that minute he, like philip, had been in a kind of dream; on his part, to find in the young man, if possible, an heir and successor; on philip's to make real exalted possibilities. there had slipped past two months, wherein philip had seen a new and brilliant avenue of life opening out before him. most like a dream indeed it seemed. he had been shut out from the world, cut off from all connection with england and his past, for m. dalbarade made it a condition of release that he should send no message or correspond with any one outside castle bercy. he had not therefore written to guida. she seemed an interminable distance away. he was as completely in a new world as though he had been transplanted; he was as wholly in the air of fresh ambitions as though he were beginning the world again--ambitions as gorgeous as bewildering. for, almost from the first, the old nobleman treated him like a son. he spoke freely to him of the most private family matters, of the most important state affairs. he consulted with him, he seemed to lean upon him. he alluded often, in oblique phrase, to adoption and succession. in the castle philip was treated as though he were in truth a high kinsman of the duke. royal ceremony and state were on every hand. he who had never had a servant of his own, now had a score at his disposal. he had spent his early days in a small jersey manor-house; here he was walking the halls of a palace with the step of assurance, the most honoured figure in a principality next to the sovereign himself. "adoption and succession" were words that rang in his ears day and night. the wild dream had laid feverish hands upon him. jersey, england, the navy, seemed very far away. ambition was the deepest passion in him, even as defeating the hopes of the vaufontaines was more than a religion with the duke. by no trickery, but by a persistent good-nature, alertness of speech, avoidance of dangerous topics, and aptness in anecdote, he had hourly made his position stronger, himself more honoured at the castle bercy. he had also tactfully declined an offer of money from the prince--none the less decidedly because he was nearly penniless. the duke's hospitality he was ready to accept, but not his purse--not yet. yet he was not in all acting a part. he was sincere in his liking for the soured, bereaved sovereign, forced to endure alliance with a government he loathed. he even admired the duke for his vexing idiosyncrasies, for they came of a strong individuality which, in happier case, should have made him a contented and beloved monarch. as it was, the people of his duchy were loyal to him beyond telling, doing his bidding without cavil: standing for the king of france at his will, declaring for the republic at his command; for, whatever the duke was to the world outside, within his duchy he was just and benevolent, if imperious. all these things philip had come to know in his short sojourn. he had, with the duke, mingled freely, yet with great natural dignity, among the people of the duchy, and was introduced everywhere, and at all times, as the sovereign's kinsman--"in a direct line from an ancient branch," as his highness declared. he had been received gladly, and had made himself an agreeable figure in the duchy, to the delight of the duke, who watched his every motion, every word, and their effect. he came to know the gossip gone abroad that the duke had already chosen him for heir. a fantastic rumour, maybe, yet who could tell? one day the duke arranged a conference of the civil and military officers of his duchy. he chuckled to see how reluctant they all were at first to concede their homage to his favourite, and how soon they fell under that favourite's influence--all save one man, the intendant of the duchy. philip himself was quick to see that this man, count carignan damour, apprehensive for his own selfish ends, was bitterly opposed to him. but damour was one among many, and the duke was entirely satisfied, for the common people received philip with applause. on this very day was laid before the duke the result of the long researches of the monks into the genealogy of the d'avranches, and there, clearly enough, was confirmation of all philip had said about his ancestors and their relation to the ancient house of d'avranche. the duke was overjoyed, and thereupon secretly made ready for philip's formal adoption and succession. it never occurred to him that philip might refuse. on the same afternoon he sent for philip to come to him in the highest room of the great tower. it was in this room that, many years ago, the duke's young and noble wife, from the province of aquitaine, had given birth to the second son of the house of bercy, and had died a year later, happy that she should at last leave behind a healthy, beautiful child, to do her honour in her lord's eyes. in this same room the duke and the brave second son had spent unnumbered hours; and here it had come home to him that the young wife was faultless as to the elder, else she had not borne him this perfect younger son. thus her memory came to be adored; and thus, when the noble second son, the glory of his house and of his heart, was killed in macedonia, the duke still came to the little upper room for his communion of remembrance. hour after hour he would sit looking from the great window out over the wide green valley, mourning bitterly, and feeling his heart shrivel up within him, his body grow crabbed and cold, and his face sour and scornful. when philip now entered this sanctuary, the duke nodded and motioned him to a chair. in silence he accepted, and in silence they sat for a time. philip knew the history of this little room--he had learned it first from frange pergot, the porter at the castle gates with whom he had made friends. the silence gave him opportunity to recall the whole story. at length the motionless brown figure huddled in the great chair, not looking at philip but out over the wide green valley, began to speak in a low, measured tone, as a dreamer might tell his dream, or a priest his vision: "a breath of life has come again to me through you. centuries ago our ancestors were brothers--far back in the direct line, brothers--the monks have proved it. "now i shall have my spite of the vaufoutaines, and now shall i have another son--strong, and with good blood in him to beget good blood." a strange, lean sort of smile passed over his lips, his eyebrows twitched, his hands clinched the arm of the chair wherein he sat, and he made a motion of his jaws as though enjoying a toothsome morsel. "h'm, henri vaufontaine shall see--and all his tribe! they shall not feed upon these lands of the d'avranches, they shall not carouse at my table when i am gone and the fool i begot has returned to his maker. the fault of him was never mine, but god's--does the almighty think we can forget that? i was ever sound and strong. when i was twenty i killed two men with my own sword at a blow; when i was thirty, to serve the king i rode a hundred and forty miles in one day--from paris to dracourt it was. we d'avranches have been men of power always. we fought for christ's sepulchre in the holy land, and three bishops and two archbishops have gone from us to speak god's cause to the world. and my wife, she came of the purest stock of aquitaine, and she was constant, in her prayers. what discourtesy was it then, for god, who hath been served well by us, to serve me in return with such mockery: to send me a bloodless zany, whom his wife left ere the wedding meats were cold." his foot tapped the floor in anger, his eyes wandered restlessly out over the green expanse. suddenly a dove perched upon the window-sill before him. his quick, shifting gaze settled on it and stayed, softening and quieting. after a slight pause, he turned to philip and spoke in a still lower tone. "last night in the chapel i spake to god and i said: 'lord god, let there be fair speech between us. wherefore hast thou nailed me like a malefactor to the tree? why didst thou send me a fool to lead our house, and afterwards a lad as fine and strong as absalom, and then lay him low like a wisp of corn in the wind, leaving me wifeless--with a prince to follow me, the by-word of men, the scorn of women--and of the vaufontaines?"' he paused again, and his eyes seemed to pierce philip's, as though he would read if each word was burning its way into his brain. "as i stood there alone, a voice spoke to me as plainly as now i speak to you, and it said: 'have done with railing. that which was the elder's shall be given to the younger. the tree hath grown crabbed and old, it beareth no longer. behold the young sapling by thy door--i have planted it there. the seed is the seed of the old tree. cherish it, lest a grafted tree flourish in thy house.'" . . . . his words rose triumphantly. "yes, yes, i heard it with my own ears, the voice. the crabbed tree, that is the main line, dying in me; the grafted tree is the vaufontaine, the interloper and the mongrel; and the sapling from the same seed as the crabbed old tree"--he reached out as though to clutch philip's arm, but drew back, sat erect in his chair, and said with ringing decision: "the sapling is philip d'avranche, of the jersey isle." for a moment there was silence between the two. a strong wind came rushing up the valley through the clear sunlight, the great trees beneath the castle swayed, and the flapping of the tricolour could be heard within. from the window-sill the dove, caught up on the wave of wind, sailed away down the widening glade. philip's first motion was to stand up and say: "i dare not think your highness means in very truth to make me your kinsman in the succession." "and why not, why not?" testily answered the duke, who liked not to be imperfectly apprehended. then he added more kindly: "why not--come, tell me that, cousin? is it then distasteful?" philip's heart gave a leap and his face flushed. "i have no other kinsman," he answered in a low tone of feeling. "i knew i had your august friendship--else all the tokens of your goodness to me were mockery; but i had scarce let myself count on the higher, more intimate honour--i, a poor captain in the english navy." he said the last words slowly, for, whatever else he was, he was a loyal english sailor, and he wished the duc de bercy to know it, the more convincingly the better for the part he was going to play in this duchy, if all things favoured. "tut, tut, what has that to do with it?" answered the duke. "what has poverty to do with blood? younger sons are always poor, younger cousins poorer. as for the captaincy of an english warship, that's of no consequence where greater games are playing--eh?" he eyed philip keenly, yet too there was an unasked question in his look. he was a critic of human nature, he understood the code of honour, none better; his was a mind that might be wilfully but never crassly blind. he was selfish where this young gentleman was concerned, yet he knew well how the same gentleman ought to think, speak, and act. the moment of the great test was come. philip could not read behind the strange, shrivelled face. instinct could help him much, but it could not interpret that parchment. he did not know whether his intended reply would alienate the duke or not, but if it did, then he must bear it. he had come, as he thought, to the crux of this adventure. all in a moment he was recalled again to his real position. the practical facts of his life possessed him. he was standing between a garish dream and commonplace realities. old feelings came back--the old life. the ingrain loyalty of all his years was his again. whatever he might be, he was still an english officer, and he was not the man to break the code of professional honour lightly. if the duke's favour and adoption must depend on the answer he must now give, well, let it be; his last state could not be worse than his first. so, still standing, he answered the duke boldly, yet quietly, his new kinsman watching him with a grim curiosity. "monsieur le prince," said philip, "i am used to poverty, that matters little; but whatever you intend towards me--and i am persuaded it is to my great honour and happiness--i am, and must still remain, an officer of the english navy." the duke's brow contracted, and his answer came cold and incisive: "the navy--that is a bagatelle; i had hoped to offer you heritage. pooh, pooh, commanding a frigate is a trade--a mere trade!" philip's face did not stir a muscle. he was in spirit the born adventurer, the gamester who could play for life's largest stakes, lose all, draw a long breath--and begin the world again. "it's a busy time in my trade now, as monsieur dalbarade would tell you, duke." the duke's lips compressed as though in anger. "you mean to say, monsieur, that you would let this wretched war between france and england stand before our own kinship and alliance? what are you and i in this great shuffle of events? have less egotism, less vanity, monsieur. you are no more than a million others--and i--i am nothing. come, come, there is more than one duty in the life of every man, and sometime he must choose between one and the other. england does not need you"--his voice and manner softened, he leaned towards philip, the eyes almost closing as he peered into his face--"but you are needed by the house of bercy." "i was commissioned to a warship in time of war," answered philip quietly, "and i lost that warship. when i can, it is my duty to go back to the powers that sent me forth. i am still an officer in full commission. your highness knows well what honour claims of me." "there are hundreds of officers to take your place; in the duchy of bercy there is none to stand for you. you must choose between your trade and the claims of name and blood, older than the english navy, older than norman england." philip's colour was as good, his manner as easy as if nothing were at stake; but in his heart he felt that the game was lost--he saw a storm gathering in the duke's eyes, the disappointment presently to break out into wrath, the injured vanity to burst into snarling disdain. but he spoke boldly nevertheless, for he was resolved that, even if he had to return from this duchy to prison, he would go with colours flying. "the proudest moment of my life was when the duc de bercy called me kinsman," he responded; "the best" (had he then so utterly forgotten the little church of st. michael's?) "was when he showed me friendship. yet, if my trade may not be reconciled with what he may intend for me, i must ask to be sent back to monsieur dalbarade." he smiled hopelessly, yet with stoical disregard of consequences, and went on: "for my trade is in full swing these days, and i stand my chance of being exchanged and earning my daily bread again. at the admiralty i am a master workman on full pay, but i'm not earning my salt here. with monsieur dalbarade my conscience would be easier." he had played his last card. now he was prepared for the fury of a jaundiced, self-willed old man, who could ill brook being thwarted. he had quickly imagined it all, and not without reason, for surely a furious disdain was at the grey lips, lines of anger were corrugating the forehead, the rugose parchment face was fiery with distemper. but what philip expected did not come to pass. rising quickly to his feet, the duke took him by the shoulders, kissed him on both cheeks, and said: "my mind is made up--is made up. nothing can change it. you have no father, cousin--well, i will be your father. you shall retain your post in the english navy-officer and patriot you shall be if you choose. a brave man makes a better ruler. but now there is much to do. there is the concurrence of the english king to secure; that shall be--has already been--my business. there is the assent of leopold john to achieve; that i shall command. there are the grave formalities of adoption to arrange; these i shall expedite. you shall see, master insolence--you, who'd throw me and my duchy over for your trade; you shall see how the vaufontaines will gnash their teeth!" in his heart philip was exultant, though outwardly he was calm. he was, however, unprepared for what followed. suddenly the duke, putting a hand on his shoulder, said: "one thing, cousin, one thing: you must marry in our order, and at once. there shall be no delay. succession must be made sure. i know the very woman--the comtesse chantavoine--young, rich, amiable. you shall meet her to-morrow-to-morrow." chapter xxi "the comtesse chantavoine, young, rich, amiable. you shall meet her to-morrow " . . . !--long after philip left the duke to go to his own chamber, these words rang in his ears. he suddenly felt the cords of fate tightening round him. so real was the momentary illusion that, as he passed through the great hall where hung the portraits of the duke's ancestors, he made a sudden outward motion of his arms as though to free himself from a physical restraint. strange to say, he had never foreseen or reckoned with this matter of marriage in the designs of the duke. he had forgotten that sovereign dukes must make sure their succession even unto the third and fourth generation. his first impulse had been to tell the duke that to introduce him to the countess would be futile, for he was already married. but the instant warning of the mind that his highness could never and would never accept the daughter of a jersey ship-builder restrained him. he had no idea that guida's descent from the noble de mauprats of chambery would weigh with the duke, who would only see in her some apple-cheeked peasant stumbling over her court train. it was curious that the duke had never even hinted at the chance of his being already married--yet not so curious either, since complete silence concerning a wife was in itself declaration enough that he was unmarried. he felt in his heart that a finer sense would have offered guida no such humiliation, for he knew the lie of silence to be as evil as the lie of speech. he had not spoken, partly because he had not yet become used to the fact that he really was married. it had never been brought home to him by the ever-present conviction of habit. one day of married life, or, in reality, a few hours of married life, with guida had given the sensation more of a noble adventure than of a lasting condition. with distance from that noble adventure, something of the glow of a lover's relations had gone, and the subsequent tender enthusiasm of mind and memory was not vivid enough to make him daring or--as he would have said--reckless for its sake. yet this same tender enthusiasm was sincere enough to make him accept the fact of his marriage without discontent, even in the glamour of new and alluring ambitions. if it had been a question of giving up guida or giving up the duchy of bercy--if that had been put before him as the sole alternative, he would have decided as quickly in guida's favour as he did when he thought it was a question between the duchy and the navy. the straightforward issue of guida or the duchy he had not been called upon to face. but, unfortunately for those who are tempted, issues are never put quite so plainly by the heralds of destiny and penalty. they are disguised as delectable chances: the toss-up is always the temptation of life. the man who uses trust-money for three days, to acquire in those three days a fortune, certain as magnificent, would pull up short beforehand if the issue of theft or honesty were put squarely before him. morally he means no theft; he uses his neighbour's saw until his own is mended: but he breaks his neighbour's saw, his own is lost on its homeward way; and having no money to buy another, he is tried and convicted on a charge of theft. thus the custom of society establishes the charge of immorality upon the technical defect. but not on that alone; upon the principle that what is committed in trust shall be held inviolate, with an exact obedience to the spirit as to the letter of the law. the issue did not come squarely to philip. he had not openly lied about guida: so far he had had no intention of doing so. he even figured to himself with what surprise guida would greet his announcement that she was henceforth princesse guida d'avranche, and in due time would be her serene highness the duchesse de bercy. certainly there was nothing immoral in his ambitions. if the reigning prince chose to establish him as heir, who had a right to complain? then, as to an officer of the english navy accepting succession in a sovereign duchy in suzerainty to the present government of france, while england was at war with her, the duke had more than once, in almost so many words, defined the situation. because the duke himself, with no successor assured, was powerless to side with the royalists against the red government, he was at the moment obliged, for the very existence of his duchy, to hoist the tricolour upon the castle with his own flag. once the succession was secure beyond the imbecile leopold john, then he would certainly declare against the present fiendish government and for the overthrown dynasty. now england was fighting france, not only because she was revolutionary france, but because of the murder of louis xvi and for the restoration of the overthrown dynasty. also she was in close sympathy with the war of the vendee, to which she would lend all possible assistance. philip argued that if it was his duty, as a captain in the english navy, to fight against the revolutionaries from without, he would be beyond criticism if, as the duc de bercy, he also fought against them from within. indeed, it was with this plain statement of the facts that the second military officer of the duchy had some days before been sent to the court of st. james to secure its intervention for philip's freedom by exchange of prisoners. this officer was also charged with securing the consent of the english king for philip's acceptance of succession in the duchy, while retaining his position in the english navy. the envoy had been instructed by the duke to offer his sympathy with england in the war and his secret adherence to the royalist cause, to become open so soon as the succession through philip was secured. to philip's mind all that side of the case was in his favour, and sorted well with his principles of professional honour. his mind was not so acutely occupied with his private honour. to tell the duke now of his marriage would be to load the dice against himself: he felt that the opportunity for speaking of it had passed. he seated himself at a table and took from his pocket a letter of guida's written many weeks before, in which she had said firmly that she had not announced the marriage, and would not; that he must do it, and he alone; that the letter written to her grandfather had not been received by him, and that no one in jersey knew their secret. in reading this letter again a wave of feeling rushed over him. he realised the force and strength of her nature: every word had a clear, sharp straightforwardness and the ring of truth. a crisis was near, and he must prepare to meet it. the duke had said that he must marry; a woman had already been chosen for him, and he was to meet her to-morrow. but, as he said to himself, that meant nothing. to meet a woman was not of necessity to marry her. marry--he could feel his flesh creeping! it gave him an ugly, startled sensation. it was like some imp of satan to drop into his ear the suggestion that princes, ere this, had been known to have two wives-one of them unofficial. he could have struck himself in the face for the iniquity of the suggestion; he flushed from the indecency of it; but so have sinners ever flushed as they set forth on the garish road to avernus. yet--yet somehow he must carry on the farce of being single until the adoption and the succession had been formally arranged. vexed with these unbidden and unwelcome thoughts, he got up and walked about his chamber restlessly. "guida--poor guida!" he said to himself many times. he was angry, disgusted that those shameful, irresponsible thoughts should have come to him. he would atone for all that--and more --when he was prince and she princess d'avranche. but, nevertheless, he was ill at ease with himself. guida was off there alone in jersey-alone. now, all at once, another possibility flashed into his mind. suppose, why, suppose--thoughtless scoundrel that he had been--suppose that there might come another than himself and guida to bear his name! and she there alone, her marriage still kept secret--the danger of it to her good name. but she had said nothing in her letters, hinted nothing. no, in none had there been the most distant suggestion. then and there he got them, one and all, and read every word, every line, all through to the end. no; there was not one hint. of course it could not be so; she would have--but no, she might not have! guida was unlike anybody else. he read on and on again. and now, somehow, he thought he caught in one of the letters a new ring, a pensive gravity, a deeper tension, which were like ciphers or signals to tell him of some change in her. for a moment he was shaken. manhood, human sympathy, surged up in him. the flush of a new sensation ran through his veins like fire. the first instinct of fatherhood came to him, a thrilling, uplifting feeling. but as suddenly there shot through his mind a thought which brought him to his feet with a spring. but suppose--suppose that it was so--suppose that through guida the further succession might presently be made sure, and suppose he went to the prince and told him all; that might win his favour for her; and the rest would be easy. that was it, as clear as day. meanwhile he would hold his peace, and abide the propitious hour. for, above all else--and this was the thing that clinched the purpose in his mind--above all else, the duke had, at best, but a brief time to live. only a week ago the court physician had told him that any violence or mental shock might snap the thread of existence. clearly, the thing was to go on as before, keep his marriage secret, meet the countess, apparently accede to all the duke proposed, and wait--and wait. with this clear purpose in his mind colouring all that he might say, yet crippling the freedom of his thought, he sat down to write to guida. he had not yet written to her, according to his parole: this issue was clear; he could not send a letter to guida until he was freed from that condition. it had been a bitter pill to swallow; and many times he had had to struggle with himself since his arrival at the castle. for whatever the new ambitions and undertakings, there was still a woman in the lonely distance for whose welfare he was responsible, for whose happiness he had yet done nothing, unless to give her his name under sombre conditions was happiness for her. all that he had done to remind him of the wedded life he had so hurriedly, so daringly, so eloquently entered upon, was to send his young wife fifty pounds. somehow, as this fact flashed to his remembrance now, it made him shrink; it had a certain cold, commercial look which struck him unpleasantly. perhaps, indeed, the singular and painful shyness--chill almost--with which guida had received the fifty pounds now communicated itself to him by the intangible telegraphy of the mind and spirit. all at once that bare, glacial fact of having sent her fifty pounds acted as an ironical illumination of his real position. he felt conscious that guida would have preferred some simple gift, some little thing that women love, in token and remembrance, rather than this contribution to the common needs of existence. now that he came to think of it, since he had left her in jersey, he had never sent her ever so small a gift. he had never given her any gifts at all save the maltese cross in her childhood --and her wedding-ring. as for the ring, it had never occurred to him that she could not wear it save in the stillness of the night, unseen by any eye save her own. he could not know that she had been wont to go to sleep with the hand clasped to her breast, pressing close to her the one outward token she had of a new life, begun with a sweetness which was very bitter and a bitterness only a little sweet. philip was in no fitting mood to write a letter. too many emotions were in conflict in him at once. they were having their way with him; and, perhaps, in this very complexity of his feelings he came nearer to being really and acutely himself than he had ever been in his life. indeed, there was a moment when he was almost ready to consign the duke and all that appertained to the devil or the deep sea, and to take his fate as it came. but one of the other selves of him calling down from the little attic where dark things brood, told him that to throw up his present chances would bring him no nearer and no sooner to guida, and must return him to the prison whence he came. yet he would write to guida now, and send the letter when he was released from parole. his courage grew as the sentences spread out before him; he became eloquent. he told her how heavily the days and months went on apart from her. he emptied out the sensations of absence, loneliness, desire, and affection. all at once he stopped short. it flashed upon him now that always his letters had been entirely of his own doings; he had pictured himself always: his own loneliness, his own grief at separation. he had never yet spoken of the details of her life, questioned her of this and of that, of all the little things which fill the life of a woman--not because she loves them, but because she is a woman, and the knowledge and governance of little things is the habit of her life. his past egotism was borne in upon him now. he would try to atone for it. now he asked her many questions in his letter. but one he did not ask. he knew not how to speak to her of it. the fact that he could not was a powerful indictment of his relations towards her, of his treatment of her, of his headlong courtship and marriage. so portions of this letter of his had not the perfect ring of truth, not the conviction which unselfish love alone can beget. it was only at the last, only when he came to a close, that the words went from him with the sharp photography of his own heart. it came, perhaps, from a remorse which, for the instant, foreshadowed danger ahead; from an acute pity for her; or perchance from a longing to forego the attempt upon an exalted place, and get back to the straightforward hours, such as those upon the ecrehos, when he knew that he loved her. but the sharpness of his feelings rendered more intense now the declaration of his love. the phrases were wrung from him. "good-bye--no, a la bonne heure, my dearest," he wrote. "good days are coming--brave, great days, when i shall be free to strike another blow for england, both from within and from without france; when i shall be, if all go well, the prince d'avranche, duc de bercy, and you my perfect princess. good-bye! thy philip, qui t'aime toujours." he had hardly written the last words when there came a knocking at his door, and a servant entered. "his highness offers his compliments to monsieur, and will monsieur descend to meet the marquis grandjon-larisse and the comtesse chantavoine, who have just arrived." for an instant philip could scarce compose himself, but he sent a message of obedience to the duke's command, and prepared to go down. so it was come--not to-morrow, but to-day. already the deep game was on. with a sigh which was half bitter and mocking laughter, he seized the pouncebox, dried his letter to guida, and put it in his pocket. as he descended the staircase, the last words of it kept assailing his mind, singing in his brain: "thy philip, qui t'aime toujours!" chapter xxii not many evenings after philip's first interview with the comtesse chantavoine, a visitor arrived at the castle. from his roundabout approach up the steep cliff in the dusk it was clear he wished to avoid notice. of gallant bearing, he was attired in a fashion unlike the citizens of bercy, or the republican military often to be seen in the streets of the town. the whole relief of the costume was white: white sash, white cuffs turned back, white collar, white rosette and band, white and red bandeau, and the faint glitter of a white shirt. in contrast were the black hat and plume, black top boots with huge spurs, and yellow breeches. he carried a gun and a sword, and a pistol was stuck in the white sash. but one thing caught the eye more than all else: a white square on the breast of the long brown coat, strangely ornamented with a red heart and a cross. he was evidently a soldier of high rank, but not of the army of the republic. the face was that of a devotee, not of peace but of war--of some forlorn crusade. it had deep enthusiasm, which yet to the trained observer would seem rather the tireless faith of a convert than the disposition of the natural man. it was somewhat heavily lined for one so young, and the marks of a hard life were on him, but distinction and energy were in his look and in every turn of his body. arriving at the castle, he knocked at the postern. at first sight of him the porter suspiciously blocked the entrance with his person, but seeing the badge upon his breast, stood at gaze, and a look of keen curiosity crossed over his face. on the visitor announcing himself as a vaufontaine, this curiosity gave place to as keen surprise; he was admitted with every mark of respect, and the gates closed behind him. "has his highness any visitors?" he asked as he dismounted. the porter nodded assent. "who are they?" he slipped a coin into the porter's hand. "one of the family--for so his serene highness calls him." "h'm, indeed! a vaufontaine, friend?" "no, monsieur, a d'avranche." "what d'avranche? not prince leopold john?" "no, monsieur, the name is the same as his highness's." "philip d'avranche? ah, from whence?" "from paris, monsieur, with his highness." the visitor, whistling softly to himself, stood thinking a moment. presently he said: "how old is he?" "about the same age as monsieur." "how does he occupy himself?" "he walks, rides, talks with his highness, asks questions of the people, reads in the library, and sometimes shoots and fishes." "is he a soldier?" "he carries no sword, and he takes long aim with a gun." a sly smile was lurking about the porter's mouth. the visitor drew from his pocket a second gold piece, and, slipping it into the other's hand, said: "tell it all at once. who is the gentleman, and what is his business here? is he, perhaps, on the side of the revolution, or does he--keep better company?" he looked keenly into the eyes of the porter, who screwed up his own, returning the gaze unflinchingly. handing back the gold piece, the man answered firmly: "i have told monsieur what every one in the duchy knows; there's no charge for that. for what more his highness and--and those in his highness's confidence know," he drew himself up with brusque importance, "there's no price, monsieur." "body o' me, here's pride and vainglory!" answered the other. "but i know you, my fine pergot, i knew you almost too well years ago; and then you were not so sensitive; then you were a good royalist like me, pergot." this time he fastened the man's look with his own and held it until pergot dropped his head before it. "i don't remember monsieur," he answered, perturbed. "of course not. the fine pergot has a bad memory, like a good republican, who by law cannot worship his god, or make the sign of the cross, or, ask the priest to visit him when he's dying. a red revolutionist is our pergot now!" "i'm as good a royalist as monsieur," retorted the man with some asperity. "so are most of us. only--only his highness says to us--" "don't gossip of what his highness says, but do his bidding, pergot. what a fool are you to babble thus! how d'ye know but i'm one of fouche's or barere's men? how d'ye know but there are five hundred men beyond waiting for my whistle?" the man changed instantly. his hand was at his side like lightning. "they'd never hear that whistle, monsieur, though you be vaufontaine or no vaufontaine!" the other, smiling, reached out and touched him on the shoulder kindly. "my dear frange pergot," said he, "that's the man i knew once, and the sort of man that's been fighting with me for the church and for the king these months past in the vendee. come, come, don't you know me, pergot? don't you remember the scapegrace with whom, for a jape, you waylaid my uncle the cardinal and robbed him, then sold him back his jewelled watch for a year's indulgences?" "but no, no," answered the man, crossing himself quickly, and by the dim lanthorn light peering into the visitor's face, "it is not possible, monsieur. the comte detricand de tournay--god rest him!--died in the jersey isle, with him they called rullecour." "well, well, you might at least remember this," rejoined the other, and with a smile he showed an old scar in the palm of his hand. a little later was ushered into the library of the castle the comte detricand de tournay, who, under the name of savary dit detricand, had lived in the isle of jersey for many years. there he had been a dissipated idler, a keeper of worthless company, an alien coolly accepting the hospitality of a country he had ruthlessly invaded as a boy. now, returned from vagabondage, he was the valiant and honoured heir of the house of vaufontaine, and heir-presumptive of the house of bercy. true to his intention, detricand had joined de la rochejaquelein, the intrepid, inspired leader of the vendee, whose sentiments became his own --"if i advance, follow me; if i retreat, kill me; if i fall, avenge me." he had proven himself daring, courageous, resourceful. his unvarying gaiety of spirits infected the simple peasants with a rebounding energy; his fearlessness inspired their confidence; his kindness to the wounded, friend or foe, his mercy to prisoners, the respect he showed devoted priests who shared with the peasants the perils of war, made him beloved. from the first all the leaders trusted him, and he sprang in a day, as had done the peasants cathelineau, d'elbee, and stofflet, or gentlemen like lescure and bonchamp, and noble fighters like d'antichamp and the prince of talmont, to an outstanding position in the royalist army. again and again he had been engaged in perilous sorties and leading forlorn hopes. he had now come from the splendid victory at saumur to urge his kinsman, the duc de bercy, to join the royalists. he had powerful arguments to lay before a nobleman the whole traditions of whose house were of constant alliance with the crown of france, whose very duchy had been the gift of a french monarch. detricand had not seen the duke since he was a lad at versailles, and there would be much in his favour, for of all the vaufontaines the duke had reason to dislike him least, and some winning power in him had of late grown deep and penetrating. when the duke entered upon him in the library, he was under the immediate influence of a stimulating talk with philip d'avranche and the chief officers of the duchy. with the memory of past feuds and hatreds in his mind, and predisposed against any vaufontaine, his greeting was courteously disdainful, his manner preoccupied. remarking that he had but lately heard of monsieur le comte's return to france, he hoped he had enjoyed his career in--was it then england or america? but yes, he remembered, it began with an expedition to take the channel isles from england, an insolent, a criminal business in time of peace, fit only for boys or buccaneers. had monsieur le comte then spent all these years in the channel isles--a prisoner perhaps? no? fastening his eyes cynically on the symbol of the royalist cause on detricand's breast, he asked to what he was indebted for the honour of this present visit. perhaps, he added drily, it was to inquire after his own health, which, he was glad to assure monsieur le comte and all his cousins of vaufontaine, was never better. the face was like a leather mask, telling nothing of the arid sarcasm in the voice. the shoulders were shrunken, the temples fallen in, the neck behind was pinched, and the eyes looked out like brown beads alive with fire, and touched with the excitement of monomania. his last word had a delicate savagery of irony, though, too, there could be heard in the tone a defiance, arguing apprehension, not lost upon his visitor. detricand had inwardly smiled during the old man's monologue, broken only by courteous, half-articulate interjections on his own part. he knew too well the old feud between their houses, the ambition that had possessed many a vaufontaine to inherit the dukedom of bercy, and the duke's futile revolt against that possibility. but for himself, now heir to the principality of vaufontaine, and therefrom, by reversion, to that of bercy, it had no importance. he had but one passion now, and it burned clear and strong, it dominated, it possessed him. he would have given up any worldly honour to see it succeed. he had idled and misspent too many years, been vaurien and ne'er-do-well too long to be sordid now. even as the grievous sinner, come from dark ways, turns with furious and tireless strength to piety and good works, so this vagabond of noble family, wheeling suddenly in his tracks, had thrown himself into a cause which was all sacrifice, courage, and unselfish patriotism--a holy warfare. the last bitter thrust of the duke had touched no raw flesh, his withers were unwrung. gifted to thrust in return, and with warrant to do so, he put aside the temptation, and answered his kinsman with daylight clearness. "monsieur le duc," said he, "i am glad your health is good--it better suits the purpose of this interview. i am come on business, and on that alone. i am from saumur, where i left de la rochejaquelein, stofflet, cathelineau, and lescure masters of the city and victors over coustard's army. we have taken eleven thousand prisoners, and--" "i have heard a rumour--" interjected the duke impatiently. "i will give you fact," continued detricand, and he told of the series of successes lately come to the army of the vendee. it was the heyday of the cause. "and how does all this concern me?" asked the duke. "i am come to beg you to join us, to declare for our cause, for the church and for the king. yours is of the noblest names in france. will you not stand openly for what you cannot waver from in your heart? if the duc de bercy declares for us, others will come out of exile, and from submission to the rebel government, to our aid. my mission is to beg you to put aside whatever reasons you may have had for alliance with this savage government, and proclaim for the king." the duke never took his eyes from detricand's. what was going on behind that parchment face, who might say? "are you aware," he answered detricand at last, "that i could send you straight from here to the guillotine?" "so could the porter at your gates, but he loves france almost as well as does the duc de bercy." "you take refuge in the fact that you are my kinsman," returned the duke acidly. "the honour is stimulating, but i should not seek salvation by it. i have the greater safety of being your guest," answered detricand with dignity. "too premature a sanctuary for a vaufontaine!" retorted the duke, fighting down growing admiration for a kinsman whose family he would gladly root out, if it lay in his power. detricand made a gesture of impatience, for he felt that his appeal had availed nothing, and he had no heart for a battle of words. his wit had been tempered in many fires, his nature was non-incandescent to praise or gibe. he had had his share of pastime; now had come his share of toil, and the mood for give and take of words was not on him. he went straight to the point now. hopelessly he spoke the plain truth. "i want nothing of the prince d'avranche but his weight and power in a cause for which the best gentlemen of france are giving their lives. i fasten my eyes on france alone: i fight for the throne of louis, not for the duchy of bercy. the duchy of bercy may sink or swim for all of me, if so be it does not stand with us in our holy war." the duke interjected a disdainful laugh. suddenly there shot into detricand's mind a suggestion, which, wild as it was, might after all belong to the grotesque realities of life. so he added with deliberation: "if alliance must still be kept with this evil government of france, then be sure there is no vaufontaine who would care to inherit a duchy so discredited. to meet that peril the duc de bercy will do well to consult his new kinsman--philip d'avranche." for a moment there was absolute silence in the room. the old nobleman's look was like a flash of flame in a mask of dead flesh. the short upper lip was arrested in a sort of snarl, the fingers, half-closed, were hooked like talons, and the whole man was a picture of surprise, fury, and injured pride. the duc de bercy to be harangued to his duty, scathed, measured, disapproved, and counselled, by a stripling vaufontaine--it was monstrous. it had the bitterness of aloes also, for in his own heart he knew that detricand spoke truth. the fearless appeal had roused him, for a moment at least, to the beauty and righteousness of a sombre, all but hopeless, cause, while the impeachment had pierced every sore in his heart. he felt now the smarting anger, the outraged vanity of the wrong-doer who, having argued down his own conscience, and believing he has blinded others as himself, suddenly finds that himself and his motives are naked before the world. detricand had known regretfully, even as he spoke, that the duke, no matter what the reason, would not now ally himself with the royalists; though, had his life been in danger, he still would have spoken the truth. so he had been human enough to try and force open the door of mystery by a biting suggestion; for he had a feeling that in the presence of the mysterious kinsman, philip d'avranche, lay the cause of the duke's resistance to his prayer. who was this philip d'avranche? at the moment it seemed absurd to him that his mind should travel back to the isle of jersey. the fury of the duke was about to break forth, when the door of the chamber opened and philip stepped inside. the silence holding two men now held three, and a curious, cold astonishment possessed the two younger. the duke was too blind with anger to see the start of recognition his visitors gave at sight of each other, and by a concurrence of feeling neither detricand nor philip gave sign of acquaintance. wariness was philip's cue, wondering caution detricand's attitude. the duke spoke first. turning from philip, he said to detricand with malicious triumph: "it will disconcert your pious mind to know i have yet one kinsman who counts it no shame to inherit bercy. monsieur le comte, i give you here the honour to know captain philip d'avranche." something of detricand's old buoyant self came back to him. his face flushed with sudden desire to laugh, then it paled in dumb astonishment. so this man, philip d'avranche, was to be set against him even in the heritage of his family, as for one hour in a jersey kitchen they had been bitter opposites. for the heritage of the houses of vaufontaine and bercy he cared little--he had deeper ambitions; but this adventuring sailor roused in him again the private grudge he had once begged him to remember. recovering himself, he answered meaningly, bowing low: "the honour is memorable--and monstrous." philip set his teeth, but replied: "i am overwhelmed to meet one whose reputation is known--in every taproom." neither had chance to say more, for the duke, though not conceiving the cause or meaning of the biting words, felt the contemptuous suggestion in detricand's voice, and burst out in anger: "go tell the prince of vaufontaine that the succession is assured to my house. monsieur my cousin, captain philip d'avranche, is now my adopted son; a wife is chosen for him, and soon, monsieur le comte, there will be still another successor to the title." "the duc de bercy should add inspired domestic prophecy to the family record in the 'almanach de gotha,"' answered detricand. "god's death!" cried the old nobleman, trembling with rage, and stretching towards the bell-rope, "you shall go to paris and the temple. fouche will take care of you." "stop, monsieur le duc!" detricand's voice rang through the room. "you shall not betray even the humblest of your kinsmen, like that monster d'orleans who betrayed the highest of his. be wise: there are hundreds of your people who still will pass a royalist on to safety." the duke's hand dropped from the bell-rope. he knew that detricand's words were true. ruling himself to quiet, he said with cold hatred: "like all your breed, crafty and insolent. but i will make you pay for it one day." glancing towards philip as though to see if he could move him, detricand answered: "make no haste on my behalf; years are not of such moment to me as to your highness." philip saw detricand's look, and felt his moment and his chance had come. "monsieur le comte!" he exclaimed threateningly. the duke glanced proudly at philip. "you will collect the debt, cousin," said he, and the smile on his face was wicked as he again turned towards detricand. "with interest well compounded," answered philip firmly. detricand smiled. "i have drawn the norman-jersey cousin, then?" said he. "now we can proceed to compliments." then with a change of manner he added quietly: "your highness, may the house of bercy have no worse enemy than i! i came only to plead the cause which, if it give death, gives honour too. and i know well that at least you are not against us in heart. monsieur d'avranche"--he turned to philip, and his words were slow and deliberate--"i hope we may yet meet in the place du vier prison --but when and where you will; and you shall find me in the vendee when you please." so saying, he bowed, and, turning, left the room. "what meant the fellow by his place du vier prison?" asked the duke. "who knows, monsieur le duc?" answered philip. "a fanatic like all the vaufontaines--a roysterer yesterday, a sainted chevalier to-morrow," said the duke irritably. "but they still have strength and beauty--always!" he added reluctantly. then he looked at the strong and comely frame before him, and was reassured. he laid a hand on philip's broad shoulder, and said admiringly: "you will of course have your hour with him, cousin: but not--not till you are a d'avranche of bercy." "not till i am a d'avranche of bercy," responded philip in a low voice. etext editor's bookmarks: egotism with which all are diseased egregious egotism of young love there are only two identities follow me; if i retreat, kill me; if i fall, avenge me it's the people who try to be clever who never are knew the lie of silence to be as evil as the lie of speech people who are clever never think of trying to be this ebook was produced by david widger the battle of the strong [a romance of two kingdoms] by gilbert parker volume 4. chapter xxiii with what seemed an unnecessary boldness detricand slept that night at the inn, "the golden crown," in the town of bercy: a royalist of the vendee exposing himself to deadly peril in a town sworn to alliance with the revolutionary government. he knew that the town, even the inn, might be full of spies; but one other thing he also knew: the innkeeper of "the golden crown" would not betray him, unless he had greatly changed since fifteen years ago. then they had been friends, for his uncle of vaufontaine had had a small estate in bercy itself, in ironical proximity to the castle. he walked boldly into the inn parlour. there were but four men in the room--the landlord, two stout burghers, and frange pergot, the porter of the castle, who had lost no time carrying his news: not to betray his old comrade in escapade, but to tell a chosen few, royalists under the rose, that he had seen one of those servants of god, an officer of the vendee. at sight of the white badge with the red cross on detricand's coat, the four stood up and answered his greeting with devout respect; and he had speedy assurance that in this inn he was safe from betrayal. presently he learned that three days hence a meeting of the states of bercy was to be held for setting the seal upon the duke's formal adoption of philip, and to execute a deed of succession. it was deemed certain that, ere this, the officer sent to england would have returned with philip's freedom and king george's licence to accept the succession in the duchy. from interest in these matters alone detricand would not have remained at bercy, but he thought to use the time for secretly meeting officers of the duchy likely to favour the cause of the royalists. during these three days of waiting he heard with grave concern a rumour that the great meeting of the states would be marked by philip's betrothal with the comtesse chantavoine. he cared naught for the succession, but there was ever with him the remembrance of guida landresse de landresse, and what touched philip d'avranche he had come to associate with her. of the true relations between guida and philip he knew nothing, but from that last day in jersey he did know that philip had roused in her emotions, perhaps less vital than love but certainly less equable than friendship. now in his fear that guida might suffer, the more he thought of the comtesse chantavoine as the chosen wife of philip the more it troubled him. he could not shake off oppressive thoughts concerning guida and this betrothal. they interwove themselves through all his secret business with the royalists of bercy. for his own part, he would have gone far and done much to shield her from injury. he had seen and known in her something higher than philip might understand--a simple womanliness, a profound depth of character. his pledge to her had been the key-note of his new life. some day, if he lived and his cause prospered, he would go back to jersey--too late perhaps to tell her what was in his heart, but not too late to tell her the promise had been kept. it was a relief when the morning of the third day came, bright and joyous, and he knew that before the sun went down he should be on his way back to saumur. his friend the innkeeper urged him not to attend the meeting of the states of bercy, lest he should be recognised by spies of government. he was, however, firm in his will to go, but he exchanged his coat with the red cross for one less conspicuous. with this eventful morn came the news that the envoy to england had returned with philip's freedom by exchange of prisoners, and with the needful licence from king george. but other news too was carrying through the town: the french government, having learned of the duke's intentions towards philip, had despatched envoys from paris to forbid the adoption and deed of succession. though the duke would have defied them, it behoved him to end the matter, if possible, before these envoys' arrival. the states therefore was hurriedly convened two hours before the time appointed, and the race began between the duke and the emissaries of the french government. it was a perfect day, and as the brilliant procession wound down the great rock from the castle, in ever-increasing, glittering line, the effect was mediaeval in its glowing splendour. all had been ready for two days, and the general enthusiasm had seized upon the occasion with an adventurous picturesqueness, in keeping with this strange elevation of a simple british captain to royal estate. this buoyant, clear-faced, stalwart figure had sprung suddenly out of the dark into the garish light of sovereign place, and the imagination of the people had been touched. he was so genial too, so easy-mannered, this d'avranche of jersey, whose genealogy had been posted on a hundred walls and carried by a thousand mouths through the principality. as philip rode past on the left of the exulting duke, the crowds cheered him wildly. only on the faces of comte carignan damour and his friends was discontent, and they must perforce be still. philip himself was outwardly calm, with that desperate quiet which belongs to the most perilous, most adventurous achieving. words he had used many years ago in jersey kept ringing in his ears--"'good-bye, sir philip'--i'll be more than that some day." the assembly being opened, in a breathless silence the governor-general of the duchy read aloud the licence of the king of england for philip d'avranche, an officer in his navy, to assume the honours to be conferred upon him by the duke and the states of bercy. then, by command of the duke, the president of the states read aloud the new order of succession: "1. to the hereditary prince leopold john and his heirs male; in default of which to "2. the prince successor, philip d'avranche and his heirs male; in default of which to "3. the heir male of the house of vaufontaine." afterwards came reading of the deed of gift by which the duke made over to prince philip certain possessions in the province of d'avranche. to all this the assent of prince leopold john had been formally secured. after the assembly and the chief officers of the duchy should have ratified these documents and the duke signed them, they were to be enclosed in a box with three locks and deposited with the sovereign court at bercy. duplicates were also to be sent to london and registered in the records of the college of arms. amid great enthusiasm, the states, by unanimous vote, at once ratified the documents. the one notable dissentient was the intendant, count carignan damour, the devout ally of the french government. it was he who had sent fouche word concerning philip's adoption; it was also he who had at last, through his spies, discovered detricand's presence in the town, and had taken action thereupon. in the states, however, he had no vote, and wisdom kept him silent, though he was watchful for any chance to delay events against the arrival of the french envoys. they should soon be here, and, during the proceedings in the states, he watched the doors anxiously. every minute that passed made him more restless, less hopeful. he had a double motive in preventing this new succession. with philip as adopted son and heir there would be fewer spoils of office; with philip as duke there would be none at all, for the instinct of distrust and antipathy was mutual. besides, as a republican, he looked for his reward from fouche in good time. presently it was announced by the president that the signatures to the acts of the states would be set in private. thereupon, with all the concourse standing, the duke, surrounded by the law, military, and civil officers of the duchy, girded upon philip the jewelled sword which had been handed down in the house of d'avranche from generation to generation. the open function being thus ended, the people were enjoined to proceed at once to the cathedral, where a te deum would be sung. the public then retired, leaving the duke and a few of the highest officials of the duchy to formally sign and seal the deeds. when the outer doors were closed, one unofficial person remained--comte detricand de tournay, of the house of vaufontaine. leaning against a pillar, he stood looking calmly at the group surrounding the duke at the great council-table. suddenly the duke turned to a door at the right of the president's chair, and, opening it, bowed courteously to some one beyond. an instant afterwards there entered the comtesse chantavoine, with her uncle the marquis grandjon-larisse, an aged and feeble but distinguished figure. they advanced towards the table, the lady on the duke's arm, and philip, saluting them gravely, offered the marquis a chair. at first the marquis declined it, but the duke pressed him, and in the subsequent proceedings he of all the number was seated. detricand apprehended the meaning of the scene. this was the lady whom the duke had chosen as wife for the new prince. the duke had invited the comtesse to witness the final act which was to make philip d'avranche his heir in legal fact as by verbal proclamation; not doubting that the romantic nature of the incident would impress her. he had even hoped that the function might be followed by a formal betrothal in the presence of the officials; and the situation might still have been critical for philip had it not been for the pronounced reserve of the comtesse herself. tall, of gracious and stately carriage, the curious quietness of the face of the comtesse would have been almost an unbecoming gravity were it not that the eyes, clear, dark, and strong, lightened it. the mouth had a somewhat set sweetness, even as the face was somewhat fixed in its calm. in her bearing, in all her motions, there was a regal quality; yet, too, something of isolation, of withdrawal, in her self-possession and unruffled observation. she seemed, to detricand, a figure apart, a woman whose friendship would be everlasting, but whose love would be more an affectionate habit than a passion; and in whom devotion would be strong because devotion was the key-note of her nature. the dress of a nun would have turned her into a saint; of a peasant would have made her a madonna; of a quaker, would have made her a dreamer and a devote; of a queen, would have made her benign yet unapproachable. it struck him all at once as he looked, that this woman had one quality in absolute kinship with guida landresse--honesty of mind and nature; only with this young aristocrat the honesty would be without passion. she had straightforwardness, a firm if limited intellect, a clear-mindedness belonging somewhat to narrowness of outlook, but a genuine capacity for understanding the right and the wrong of things. guida, so detricand thought, might break her heart and live on; this woman would break her heart and die: the one would grow larger through suffering, the other shrink to a numb coldness. so he entertained himself by these flashes of discernment, presently merged in wonderment as to what was in philip's mind as he stood there, destiny hanging in that drop of ink at the point of the pen in the duke's fingers! philip was thinking of the destiny, but more than all else just now he was thinking of the woman before him and the issue to be faced by him regarding her. his thoughts were not so clear nor so discerning as detricand's. no more than he understood guida did he understand this clear-eyed, still, self-possessed woman. he thought her cold, unsympathetic, barren of that glow which should set the pulses of a man like himself bounding. it never occurred to him that these still waters ran deep, that to awaken this seemingly glacial nature, to kindle a fire on this altar, would be to secure unto his life's end a steady, enduring flame of devotion. he revolted from her; not alone because he had a wife, but because the comtesse chilled him, because with her, in any case, he should never be able to play the passionate lover as he had done with guida; and with philip not to be the passionate lover was to be no lover at all. one thing only appealed to him: she was the comtesse chantavoine, a fitting consort in the eyes of the world for a sovereign duke. he was more than a little carried off his feet by the marvel of the situation. he could think of nothing quite clearly; everything was confused and shifting in his mind. the first words of the duke were merely an informal greeting to his council and the high officers present. he was about to speak further when some one drew his attention to detricand's presence. an order was given to challenge the stranger, but detricand, without waiting for the approach of the officer, advanced towards the table, and, addressing the duke, said: "the duc de bercy will not forbid the presence of his cousin, detricand de tournay, at this impressive ceremony?" the duke, dumfounded, though he preserved an outward calm, could not answer for an instant. then with a triumphant, vindictive smile which puckered his yellow cheeks like a wild apple, he said: "the comte de tournay is welcome to behold an end of the ambitions of the vaufontaines." he looked towards philip with an exulting pride. "monsieur le comte is quite right," he added, turning to his council-"he may always claim the privileges of a relative of the bercys; but the hospitality goes not beyond my house and my presence, and monsieur le comte will understand my meaning." at that moment detricand caught the eye of damour the intendant, and he understood perfectly. this man, the innkeeper had told him, was known to be a revolutionary, and he felt he was in imminent danger. he came nearer, however, bowing to all present, and, making no reply to the duke save a simple, "i thank your highness," took a place near the council-table. the short ceremony of signing the deeds immediately followed. a few formal questions were asked of philip, to which he briefly replied, and afterwards he made the oath of allegiance to the duke, with his hand upon the ancient sword of the d'avranches. these preliminaries ended, the duke was just stooping to put his pen to the paper for signature, when the intendant, as much to annoy philip as still to stay the proceedings against the coming of fouche's men, said: "it would appear that one question has been omitted in the formalities of this court." he paused dramatically. he was only aiming a random shot; he would make the most of it. the duke looked up perturbed, and said sharply: "what is that--what is that, monsieur?" "a form, monsieur le duc, a mere form. monsieur"--he bowed towards philip politely--"monsieur is not already married? there is no--" he paused again. for an instant there was absolute stillness. philip had felt his heart give one great thump of terror: did the intendant know anything? did detricand know anything. standing rigid for a moment, his pen poised, the duke looked sharply at the intendant and then still more sharply at philip. the progress of that look had granted philip an instant's time to recover his composure. he was conscious that the comtesse chantavoine had given a little start, and then had become quite still and calm. now her eyes were intently fixed upon him. he had, however, been too often in physical danger to lose his nerve at this moment. the instant was big with peril; it was the turning point of his life, and he felt it. his eyes dropped towards the spot of ink at the point of the pen the duke held. it fascinated him, it was destiny. he took a step nearer to the table, and, drawing himself up, looked his princely interlocutor steadily in the eyes. "of course there is no marriage--no woman?" asked the duke a little hoarsely, his eyes fastened on philip's. with steady voice philip replied: "of course, monsieur le duc." there was another stillness. some one sighed heavily. it was the comtesse chantavoine. the next instant the duke stooped, and wrote his signature three times hurriedly upon the deeds. a moment afterwards, detricand was in the street, making towards "the golden crown." as he hurried on he heard the galloping of horses ahead of him. suddenly some one plucked him by the arm from a doorway. "quick--within!" said a voice. it was that of the duke's porter, frange pergot. without hesitation or a word, detricand did as he was bid, and the door clanged to behind him. "fouche's men are coming down the street; spies have betrayed you," whispered pergot. "follow me. i will hide you till night, and then you must away." pergot had spoken the truth. but detricand was safely hidden, and fouche's men came too late to capture the vendean chief or to forbid those formal acts which made philip d'avranche a prince. once again at saumur, a week later, detricand wrote a long letter to carterette mattingley, in jersey, in which he set forth these strange events at bercy, and asked certain questions concerning guida. chapter xxiv since the day of his secret marriage with guida, philip had been carried along in the gale of naval preparation and incidents of war as a leaf is borne onward by a storm--no looking back, to-morrow always the goal. but as a wounded traveller nursing carefully his hurt seeks shelter from the scorching sun and the dank air, and travels by little stages lest he never come at all to friendly hostel, so guida made her way slowly through the months of winter and of spring. in the past, it had been february to guida because the yellow lenten lilies grew on all the sheltered cotils; march because the periwinkle and the lords-and-ladies came; may when the cliffs were a blaze of golden gorse and the perfume thereof made all the land sweet as a honeycomb. then came the other months, with hawthorn trees and hedges all in blow; the honeysuckle gladdening the doorways, the lilac in bloomy thickets; the ox-eyed daisy of whitsuntide; the yellow rose of st. brelade that lies down in the sand and stands up in the hedges; the "mergots" which, like good soldiers, are first in the field and last out of it; the unscented dog-violets, orchises and celandines; the osier beds, the ivy on every barn; the purple thrift in masses on the cliff; the sea-thistle in its glaucous green--"the laughter of the fields whose laugh was gold." and all was summer. came a time thereafter, when the children of the poor gathered blackberries for preserves and home made wine; when the wild stock flowered in st. ouen's bay; when the bracken fern was gathered from every cotil, and dried for apple-storing, for bedding for the cherished cow, for back-rests for the veilles, and seats round the winter fire; when peaches, apricots, and nectarines made the walls sumptuous red and gold; when the wild plum and crab-apple flourished in secluded roadways, and the tamarisk dropped its brown pods upon the earth. and all this was autumn. at last, when the birds of passage swept aloft, snipe and teal and barnacle geese, and the rains began; when the green lizard with its turquoise-blue throat vanished; when the jersey crapaud was heard croaking no longer in the valleys and the ponds; and the cows were well blanketed--then winter had come again. such was the association of seasons in guida's mind until one day of a certain year, when for a few hours a man had called her his wife, and then had sailed away. there was no log that might thereafter record the days and weeks unwinding the coils of an endless chain into that sea whither philip had gone. letters she had had, two letters, one in january, one in march. how many times, when a channel-packet came in, did she go to the doorway and watch for old mere rossignol, making the rounds with her han basket, chanting the names of those for whom she had letters; and how many times did she go back to the kitchen, choking down a sob! the first letter from philip was at once a blessing and a blow; it was a reassurance and it was a misery. it spoke of bread, as it were, yet offered a stone. it eloquently, passionately told of his love; but it also told, with a torturing ease, that the araminta was commissioned with sealed orders, and he did not know when he should see her nor when he should be able to write again. war had been declared against france, and they might not touch a port nor have chance to send a letter by a homeward vessel for weeks, and maybe months. this was painful, of course, but it was fate, it was his profession, and it could not be helped. of course--she must understand--he would write constantly, telling her, as through a kind of diary, what he was doing every day, and then when the chance came the big budget should go to her. a pain came to guida's heart as she read the flowing tale of his buoyant love. had she been the man and he the woman, she could never have written so smoothly of "fate," and "profession," nor told of this separation with so complaisant a sorrow. with her the words would have been wrenched forth from her heart, scarred into the paper with the bitterness of a spirit tried beyond enduring. with what enthusiasm did philip, immediately after his heart-breaking news, write of what the war might do for him; what avenues of advancement it might open up, what splendid chances it would offer for success in his career! did he mean that to comfort her, she asked herself. did he mean it to divert her from the pain of the separation, to give her something to hope for? she read the letter over and over again--yet no, she could not, though her heart was so willing, find that meaning in it. it was all philip, philip full of hope, purpose, prowess, ambition. did he think--did he think that that could ease the pain, could lighten the dark day settling down on her? could he imagine that anything might compensate for his absence in the coming months, in this year of all years in her life? his lengthened absence might be inevitable, it might be fate, but could he not see the bitter cruelty of it? he had said that he would be back with her again in two months; and now--ah, did he not know! as the weeks came and went again she felt that indeed he did not know-or care, maybe. some natures cling to beliefs long after conviction has been shattered. these are they of the limited imagination, the loyal, the pertinacious, and the affectionate, the single-hearted children of habit; blind where they do not wish to see, stubborn where their inclinations lie, unamenable to reason, wholly held by legitimate obligations. but guida was not of these. her brain and imagination were as strong as her affections. her incurable honesty was the deepest thing in her; she did not know even how to deceive herself. as her experience deepened under the influence of a sorrow which still was joy, and a joy that still was sorrow, her vision became acute and piercing. her mind was like some kaleidoscope. pictures of things, little and big, which had happened to her in her life, flashed by her inner vision in furious procession. it was as if, in the photographic machinery of the brain, some shutter had slipped from its place, and a hundred orderless and ungoverned pictures, loosed from natural restraint, rushed by. five months had gone since philip had left her: two months since she had received his second letter, months of complexity of feeling; of tremulousness of discovery; of hungry eagerness for news of the war; of sudden little outbursts of temper in her household life--a new thing in her experience; of passionate touches of tenderness towards her grandfather; of occasional biting comments in the conversations between the sieur and the chevalier, causing both gentlemen to look at each other in silent amaze; of as marked lapses into listless disregard of any talk going on around her. she had been used often to sit still, doing nothing, in a sort of physical content, as the sieur and his visitors talked; now her hands were always busy, knitting, sewing, or spinning, the steady gaze upon the work showing that her thoughts were far away. though the chevalier and her grandfather vaguely noted these changes, they as vaguely set them down to her growing womanhood. in any case, they held it was not for them to comment upon a woman or upon a woman's ways. and a girl like guida was an incomprehensible being, with an orbit and a system all her own; whose sayings and doings were as little to be reduced to their understandings as the vagaries of any star in the milky way or the currents in st. michael's basin. one evening she sat before the fire thinking of philip. her grandfather had retired earlier than usual. biribi lay asleep on the veille. there was no sound save the ticking of the clock on the mantel above her head, the dog's slow breathing, the snapping of the log on the fire, and a soft rush of heat up the chimney. the words of philip's letters, from which she had extracted every atom of tenderness they held, were always in her ears. at last one phrase kept repeating itself to her like some plaintive refrain, torturing in its mournful suggestion. it was this: "but you see, beloved, though i am absent from you i shall have such splendid chances to get on. there's no limit to what this war may do for me." suddenly guida realised how different was her love from philip's, how different her place in his life from his place in her life. she reasoned with herself, because she knew that a man's life was work in the world, and that work and ambition were in his bones and in his blood, had been carried down to him through centuries of industrious, ambitious generations of men: that men were one race and women were another. a man was bound by the conditions governing the profession by which he earned his bread and butter and played his part in the world, while striving to reach the seats of honour in high places. he must either live by the law, fulfil to the letter his daily duties in the business of life, or drop out of the race; while a woman, in the presence of man's immoderate ambition, with bitterness and tears, must learn to pray, "o lord, have mercy upon us, and incline our hearts to keep this law." suddenly the whole thing resolved itself in guida's mind, and her thinking came to a full stop. she understood now what was the right and what the wrong; and, child as she was in years, woman in thought and experience, yielding to the impulse of the moment, she buried her face in her hands and burst into tears. "o philip, philip, philip," she sobbed aloud, "it was not right of you to marry me; it was wicked of you to leave me!" then in her mind she carried on the impeachment and reproach. if he had married her openly and left her at once, it would have been hard to bear, but in the circumstances it might have been right. if he had married her secretly and left her at the altar, so keeping the vow he had made her when she promised to become his wife, that might have been pardonable. but to marry her as he did, and then, breaking his solemn pledge, leave her--it was not right in her eyes; and if not right in the eyes of her who loved him, in whose would it be right? to these definitions she had come at last. it is an eventful moment, a crucial ordeal for a woman, when she forces herself to see the naked truth concerning the man she has loved, yet the man who has wronged her. she is born anew in that moment: it may be to love on, to blind herself, and condone and defend, so lowering her own moral tone; or to congeal in heart, become keener in intellect, scornful and bitter with her own sex and merciless towards the other, indifferent to blame and careless of praise, intolerant, judging all the world by her own experience, incredulous of any true thing. or again she may become stronger, sadder, wiser; condoning nothing, minimising nothing, deceiving herself in nothing, and still never forgiving at least one thing--the destruction of an innocent faith and a noble credulity; seeing clearly the whole wrong; with a strong intelligence measuring perfectly the iniquity; but out of a largeness of nature and by virtue of a high sense of duty, devoting her days to the salvation of a man's honour, to the betterment of one weak or wicked nature. of these last would have been guida. "o philip, philip, you have been wicked to me!" she sobbed. her tears fell upon the stone hearth, and the fire dried them. every teardrop was one girlish feeling and emotion gone, one bright fancy, one tender hope vanished. she was no longer a girl. there were troubles and dangers ahead of her, but she must now face them dry-eyed and alone. in his second letter philip had told her to announce the marriage, and said that he would write to her grandfather explaining all, and also to the rev. lorenzo dow. she had waited and watched for that letter to her grandfather, but it had not come. as for mr. dow, he was a prisoner with the french; and he had never given her the marriage certificate. there was yet another factor in the affair. while the island was agog over mr. dow's misfortune, there had been a bold robbery at st. michael's rectory of the strong-box containing the communion plate, the parish taxes for the year, and--what was of great moment to at least one person --the parish register of deaths, baptisms, and marriages. thus it was that now no human being in jersey could vouch that guida had been married. yet these things troubled her little. how easily could philip set all right! if he would but come back--that at first was her only thought; for what matter a ring, or any proof or proclamation without philip! it did not occur to her at first that all these things were needed to save her from shame in the eyes of the world. if she had thought of them apprehensively, she would have said to herself, how easy to set all right by simply announcing the marriage! and indeed she would have done so when war was declared and philip received his new command, but that she had wished the announcement to come from him. well, that would come in any case when his letter to her grandfather arrived. no doubt it had missed the packet by which hers came, she thought. but another packet and yet another arrived; and still there was no letter from philip for the sieur de mauprat. winter had come, and spring had gone, and now summer was at hand. haymaking was beginning, the wild strawberries were reddening among the clover, and in her garden, apples had followed the buds on the trees beneath which philip had told his fateful tale of love. at last a third letter arrived, but it brought little joy to her heart. it was extravagant in terms of affection, but somehow it fell short of the true thing, for its ardour was that of a mind preoccupied, and underneath all ran a current of inherent selfishness. it delighted in the activity of his life, it was full of hope, of promise of happiness for them both in the future, but it had no solicitude for guida in the present. it chilled her heart--so warm but a short season ago--that philip to whom she had once ascribed strength, tenderness, profound thoughtfulness, should concern himself so little in the details of her life. for the most part, his letters seemed those of an ardent lover who knew his duty and did it gladly, but with a self-conscious and flowing eloquence, costing but small strain of feeling. in this letter he was curious to know what the people in jersey said about their marriage. he had written to lorenzo dow and her grandfather, he said, but had heard afterwards that the vessel carrying the letters had been taken by a french privateer; and so they had not arrived in jersey. but of course she had told her grandfather and all the island of the ceremony performed at st. michael's. he was sending her fifty pounds, his first contribution to their home; and, the war over, a pretty new home she certainly should have. he would write to her grandfather again, though this day there was no time to do so. guida realised now that she must announce the marriage at once. but what proofs of it had she? there was the ring philip had given her, inscribed with their names; but she was sophisticated enough to know that this would not be adequate evidence in the eyes of her jersey neighbours. the marriage register of st. michael's, with its record, was stolen, and that proof was gone. lastly, there were philip's letters; but no--a thousand times no!--she would not show philip's letters to any human being; even the thought of it hurt her delicacy, her self-respect. her heart burned with fresh bitterness to think that there had been a secret marriage. how hard it was at this distance of time to tell the world the tale, and to be forced to prove it by philip's letters. no, no, in spite of all, she could not do it--not yet. she would still wait the arrival of his letter to her grandfather. if it did not come soon, then she must be brave and tell her story. she went to the vier marchi less now. also fewer folk stood gossiping with her grandfather in the place du vier prison, or by the well at the front door--so far he had not wondered why. to be sure, maitresse aimable came oftener; but, since that notable day at sark, guida had resolutely avoided reference, however oblique, to philip and herself. in her dark days the one tenderly watchful eye upon her was that of the egregiously fat old woman called the "femme de ballast," whose thick tongue clave to the roof of her mouth, whose outer attractions were so meagre that even her husband's chief sign of affection was to pull her great toe, passing her bed of a morning to light the fire. carterette mattingley also came, but another friend who had watched over guida for years before philip appeared in the place du vier prison never entered her doorway now. only once or twice since that day on the ecrehos, so fateful to them both, had guida seen ranulph. he had withdrawn to st. aubin's bay, where his trade of ship-building was carried on, and having fitted up a small cottage, lived a secluded life with his father there. neither of them appeared often in st. heliers, and they were seldom or never seen in the vier marchi. carterette saw ranulph little oftener than did guida, but she knew what he was doing, being anxious to know, and every one's business being every one else's business in jersey. in the same way ranulph knew of guida. what carterette was doing ranulph was not concerned to know, and so knew little; and guida knew and thought little of how ranulph fared: which was part of the selfishness of love. but one day carterette received a letter from france which excited her greatly, and sent her off hot-foot to guida. in the same hour ranulph heard a piece of hateful gossip which made him fell to the ground the man who told him, and sent him with white face, and sick, yet indignant heart, to the cottage in the place du vier prison. chapter xxv guida was sitting on the veille reading an old london paper she had bought of the mate of the packet from southampton. one page contained an account of the execution of louis xvi; another reported the fight between the english thirty-six gun frigate araminta and the french niobe. the engagement had been desperate, the valiant araminta having been fought, not alone against odds as to her enemy, but against the irresistible perils of a coast upon which the admiralty charts gave cruelly imperfect information. to the admiralty we owed the fact, the journal urged, that the araminta was now at the bottom of the sea, and its young commander confined in a french fortress, his brave and distinguished services lost to the country. nor had the government yet sought to lessen the injury by arranging a cartel for the release of the unfortunate commander. the araminta! to guida the letters of the word seemed to stand out from the paper like shining hieroglyphs on a misty grey curtain. the rest of the page was resolved into a filmy floating substance, no more tangible than the ashy skeleton on which writing still lives when the paper itself has been eaten by flame, and the flame swallowed by the air. araminta--this was all her eyes saw, that familiar name in the flaring handwriting of the genius of life, who had scrawled her destiny in that one word. slowly the monstrous ciphers faded from the grey hemisphere of space, and she saw again the newspaper in her trembling fingers, the kitchen into which the sunlight streamed from the open window, the dog biribi basking in the doorway. that living quiet which descends upon a house when the midday meal and work are done came suddenly home to her, in contrast to the turmoil in her mind and being. so that was why philip had not written to her! while her heart was daily growing more bitter against him, he had been fighting his vessel against great odds, and at last had been shipwrecked and carried off a prisoner. a strange new understanding took possession of her. her life suddenly widened. she realised all at once how the eyes of the whole world might be fixed upon a single ship, a few cannon, and some scores of men. the general of a great army leading tens of thousands into the clash of battle--that had been always within her comprehension; but this was almost miraculous, this sudden projection of one ship and her commander upon the canvas of fame. philip had left her, unknown save to a few. with the nations turned to see, he had made a gallant and splendid fight, and now he was a prisoner in a french fortress. this then was why her grandfather had received no letter from him concerning the marriage. well, now she must speak for herself; she must announce it. must she show philip's letters?--no, no, she could not.... suddenly a new suggestion came to her: there was one remaining proof. since no banns had been published, philip must have obtained a license from the dean of the island, and he would have a record of it. all she had to do now was to get a copy of this record--but no, a license to marry was no proof of marriage; it was but evidence of intention. still, she would go to the dean this very moment. it was not right that she should wait longer: indeed, in waiting so long she had already done great wrong to herself--and to philip perhaps. she rose from the veille with a sense of relief. no more of this secrecy, making her innocence seem guilt; no more painful dreams of punishment for some intangible crime; no starting if she heard a sudden footstep; no more hurried walk through the streets, looking neither to right nor to left; no more inward struggles wearing away her life. to-morrow--to-morrow--no, this very night, her grandfather and one other, even maitresse aimable, should know all; and she should sleep quietly-oh, so quietly to-night! looking into a mirror on the wall--it had been a gift from her grandfather--she smiled at herself. why, how foolish of her it had been to feel so much and to imagine terrible things! her eyes were shining now, and her hair, catching the sunshine from the window, glistened like burnished copper. she turned to see how it shone on the temple and the side of her head. philip had praised her hair. her look lingered for a moment placidly on herself-then she started suddenly. a wave of feeling, a shiver, passed through her, her brow gathered, she flushed deeply. turning away from the mirror, she went and sat down again on the edge of the veille. her mind had changed. she would go to the dean's--but not till it was dark. she suddenly thought it strange that the dean had never said anything about the license. why, again, perhaps he had. how should she know what gossip was going on in the town! but no, she was quick to feel, and if there had been gossip she would have felt it in the manner of her neighbours. besides, gossip as to a license to marry was all on the right side. she sighed--she had sighed so often of late--to think what a tangle it all was, of how it would be smoothed out tomorrow, of what-there was a click of the garden-gate, a footstep on the walk, a halfgrowl from biribi, and the face of carterette mattingley appeared in the kitchen doorway. seeing guida seated on the veille, she came in quickly, her dancing dark eyes heralding great news. "don't get up, ma couzaine," she said, "please no. sit just there, and i'll sit beside you. ah, but i have the most wonderfuls!" carterette was out of breath. she had hurried here from her home. as she said herself, her two feet weren't in one shoe on the way, and that with her news made her quiver with excitement. at first, bursting with mystery, she could do no more than sit and look in guida's face. carterette was quick of instinct in her way, but yet she had not seen any marked change in her friend during the past few months. she had been so busy thinking of her own particular secret that she was not observant of others. at times she met ranulph, and then she was uplifted, to be at once cast down again; for she saw that his old cheerfulness was gone, that a sombreness had settled on him. she flattered herself, however, that she could lighten his gravity if she had the right and the good opportunity; the more so that he no longer visited the cottage in the place du vier prison. this drew her closer to guida also, for, in truth, carterette had no loftiness of nature. like most people, she was selfish enough to hold a person a little dearer for not standing in her own especial light. long ago she had shrewdly guessed that guida's interest lay elsewhere than with ranulph, and a few months back she had fastened upon philip as the object of her favour. that seemed no weighty matter, for many sailors had made love to carterette in her time, and knowing it was here to-day and away to-morrow with them, her heart had remained untouched. why then should she think guida would take the officer seriously where she herself held the sailor lightly? but at the same time she felt sure that what concerned philip must interest guida, she herself always cared to hear the fate of an old admirer, and this was what had brought her to the cottage to-day. "guess who's wrote me a letter?" she asked of guida, who had taken up some sewing, and was now industriously regarding the stitches. at carterette's question, guida looked up and said with a smile, "some one you like, i see." carterette laughed gaily. "ba su, i should think i did--in a way. but what's his name? come, guess, ma'm'selle dignity." "eh ben, the fairy godmother," answered guida, trying not to show an interest she felt all too keenly; for nowadays it seemed to her that all news should be about philip. besides, she was gaining time and preparing herself for--she knew not what. "o my grief!" responded the brown-eyed elf, kicking off a red slipper, and thrusting her foot into it again, "never a fairy godmother had i, unless it's old manon moignard the witch: "'sas, son, bileton, my grand'methe a-fishing has gone: she'll gather the fins to scrape my jowl, and ride back home on a barnyard fowl!' "nannin, ma'm'selle, 'tis plain to be seen you can't guess what a cornfield grows besides red poppies." laughing in sheer delight at the mystery she was making, she broke off again into a whimsical nursery rhyme: "'coquelicot, j'ai mal au de coquelicot, qu'est qui l'a fait? coquelicot, ch'tai mon valet.'" she kicked off the red slipper again. flying half-way across the room, it alighted on the table, and a little mud from the heel dropped on the clean scoured surface. with a little moue of mockery, she got slowly up and tiptoed across the floor, like a child afraid of being scolded. gathering the dust carefully, and looking demurely askance at guida the while, she tiptoed over again to the fireplace and threw it into the chimney. "naughty carterette," she said at herself with admiring reproach, as she looked in guida's mirror, and added, glancing with farcical approval round the room, "and it all shines like peacock's feather, too!" guida longed to snatch the letter from carterette's hand and read it, but she only said calmly, though the words fluttered in her throat: "you're as gay as a chaffinch, garcon carterette." garcon carterette! instantly carterette sobered down. no one save ranulph ever called her garcon carterette. guida used ranulph's name for carterette, knowing that it would change the madcap's mood. carterette, to hide a sudden flush, stooped and slowly put on her slipper. then she came back to the veille, and sat down again beside guida, saying as she did so: "yes, i'm gay as a chaffinch--me." she unfolded the letter slowly, and guida stopped sewing, but mechanically began to prick the linen lying on her knee with the point of the needle. "well," said carterette deliberately, "this letter's from a pend'loque of a fellow--at least, we used to call him that--though if you come to think, he was always polite as mended porringer. often he hadn't two sous to rub against each other. and--and not enough buttons for his clothes." guida smiled. she guessed whom carterette meant. "has monsieur detricand more buttons now?" she asked with a little whimsical lift of the eyebrows. "ah bidemme, yes, and gold too, all over him--like that!" she made a quick sweeping gesture which would seem to make detricand a very spangle of buttons. "come, what do you think--he's a general now. "a general!" instantly guida thought of philip and a kind of envy shot into her heart that this idler detricand should mount so high in a few months--a man whose past had held nothing to warrant such success. "a general--where?" she asked. "in the vendee army, fighting for the new king of france--you know the rebels cut off the last king's head." at another time guida's heart would have throbbed with elation, for the romance of that vendee union of aristocrat and peasant fired her imagination; but she only said in the tongue of the people: "ma fuifre, yes, i know!" carterette was delighted to thus dole out her news, and get due reward of astonishment. "and he's another name," she added. "at least it's not another, he always had it, but he didn't call himself by it. pardi, he's more than the chevalier; he's the comte detricand de tournay--ah, then, believe me if you choose, there it is!" she pointed to the signature of the letter, and with a gush of eloquence explained how it all was about detricand the vaurien and detricand the comte de tournay. "good riddance to monsieur savary dit detricand, and good welcome to the comte de tournay," answered guida, trying hard to humour carterette, that she should sooner hear the news yet withheld. "and what follows after?" carterette was half sorry that her great moment had come. she wished she could have linked out the suspense longer. but she let herself be comforted by the anticipated effect of her "wonderfuls." "i'll tell you what comes after--ah, but see then what a news i have for you! you know that monsieur d'avranche--well, what do you think has come to him?" guida felt as if a monstrous hand had her heart in its grasp, crushing it. presentiment seized her. carterette was busy running over the pages of the letter, and did not notice her colourless face. she had no thought that guida had any vital interest in philip, and ruthlessly, though unconsciously, she began to torture the young wife as few are tortured in this world. she read aloud detricand's description of his visit to the castle of bercy, and of the meeting with philip. "'see what comes of a name!'" wrote detricand. "'here was a poor prisoner whose ancestor, hundreds of years ago, may or mayn't have been a relative of the d'avranches of clermont, when a disappointed duke, with an eye open for heirs, takes a fancy to the good-looking face of the poor prisoner, and voila! you have him whisked off to a palace, fed on milk and honey, and adopted into the family. then a pedigree is nicely grown on a summer day, and this fine young jersey adventurer is found to be a green branch from the old root; and there's a great blare of trumpets, and the states of the duchy are called together to make this english officer a prince--and that's the thousand and one nights in arabia, ma'm'selle carterette.'" guida was sitting rigid and still. in the slight pause carterette made, a hundred confused torturing thoughts swam through her mind and presently floated into the succeeding sentences of the letter: "'as for me, i'm like rabot's mare, i haven't time to laugh at my own foolishness. i'm either up to my knees in grass or clay fighting revolutionists, or i'm riding hard day and night till i'm round-backed like a wood-louse, to make up for all the good time i so badly lost in your little island. you wouldn't have expected that, my friend with the tongue that stings, would you? but then, ma'm'selle of the red slippers, one is never butted save by a dishorned cow--as your father used to say."' carterette paused again, saying in an aside: "that is m'sieu' all over, all so gay. but who knows? for he says, too, that the other day afighting fontenay, five thousand of his men come across a cavalry as they run to take the guns that eat them up like cabbages, and they drop on their knees, and he drops with them, and they all pray to god to help them, while the cannon balls whiz-whiz over their heads. and god did hear them, for they fell down flat when the guns was fired and the cannon balls never touched 'em." during this interlude, guida, sick with anxiety, could scarcely sit still. she began sewing again, though her fingers trembled so she could hardly make a stitch. but carterette, the little egoist, did not notice her agitation; her own flurry dimmed her sight. she began reading again. the first few words had little or no significance for guida, but presently she was held as by the fascination of a serpent. "'and ma'm'selle carterette, what do you think this young captain, now prince philip d'avranche, heir to the title of bercy--what do you think he is next to do? even to marry a countess of great family the old duke has chosen for him; so that the name of d'avranche may not die out in the land. and that is the way that love begins. . . . wherefore, i want you to write and tell me--'" what he wanted carterette to tell him guida never heard, though it concerned herself, for she gave a moan like a dumb animal in agony, and sat rigid and blanched, the needle she had been using embedded in her finger to the bone, but not a motion, not a sign of animation in face or figure. all at once, some conception of the truth burst upon the affrighted carterette. the real truth she imagined as little as had detricand. but now when she saw the blanched face, the filmy eyes and stark look, the finger pierced by the needle, she knew that a human heart had been pierced too, with a pain worse than death--truly it was worse, for she had seen death, and she had never seen anything like this in its dire misery and horror. she caught the needle quickly from the finger, wrapped her kerchief round the wound, threw away the sewing from guida's lap, and running an arm about her waist, made as if to lay a hot cheek against the cold brow of her friend. suddenly, however, with a new and painful knowledge piercing her intelligence, and a face as white and scared as guida's own, she ran to the dresser, caught up a hanap, and brought some water. guida still sat as though life had fled, and the body, arrested in its activity, would presently collapse. carterette, with all her seeming lightsomeness, had sense and selfpossession. she tenderly put the water to guida's lips, with comforting words, though her own brain was in a whirl, and dark forebodings flashed through her mind. "ah, man gui, man pethe!" she said in the homely patois. "there, drink, drink, dear, dear couzaine." guida's lips opened, and she drank slowly, putting her hand to her heart with a gesture of pain. carterette put down the hanap and caught her hands. "come, come, these cold hands-pergui, but we must stop that! they are so cold." she rubbed them hard. "the poor child of heaven--what has come over you? speak to me . . . ah, but see, everything will come all right by and by! god is good. nothing's as bad as what it seems. there was never a grey wind but there's a greyer. nanningia, take it not so to heart, my couzaine; thou shalt have love enough in the world.... ah, grand doux d'la vie, but i could kill him!" she added under her breath, and she rubbed guida's hands still, and looked frankly, generously into her eyes. yet, try as she would in that supreme moment, carterette could not feel all she once felt concerning guida. there is something humiliating in even an undeserved injury, something which, to the human eye, lessens the worthiness of its victim. to this hour carterette had looked upon her friend as a being far above her own companionship. all in a moment, in this new office of comforter the relative status was altered. the plane on which guida had moved was lowered. pity, while it deepened carterette's tenderness, lessened the gap between them. perhaps something of this passed through guida's mind, and the deep pride and courage of her nature came to her assistance. she withdrew her hands and mechanically smoothed back her hair, then, as carterette sat watching her, folded up the sewing and put it in the work-basket hanging on the wall. there was something unnatural in her governance of herself now. she seemed as if doing things in a dream, but she did them accurately and with apparent purpose. she looked at the clock, then went to the fire to light it, for it was almost time to get her grandfather's tea. she did not seem conscious of the presence of carterette, who still sat on the veille, not knowing quite what to do. at last, as the flame flashed up in the chimney, she came over to her friend, and said: "carterette, i am going to the dean's. will you run and ask maitresse aimable to come here to me soon?" her voice had the steadiness of despair--that steadiness coming to those upon whose nerves has fallen a great numbness, upon whose sensibilities has settled a cloud that stills them as the thick mist stills the ripples on the waters of a fen. all the glamour of guida's youth had dropped away. she had deemed life good, and behold, it was not good; she had thought her dayspring was on high, and happiness had burnt into darkness like quick-consuming flax. but all was strangely quiet in her heart and mind. nothing more that she feared could happen to her; the worst had fallen, and now there came down on her the impermeable calm of the doomed. carterette was awed by her face, and saying that she would go at once to maitresse aimable, she started towards the door, but as quickly stopped and came back to guida. with none of the impulse that usually marked her actions, she put her arms round guida's neck and kissed her, saying with a subdued intensity: "i'd go through fire and water for you. i want to help you every way i can--me." guida did not say a word, but she kissed the hot cheek of the smugglerpirate's daughter, as in dying one might kiss the face of a friend seen with filmy eyes. when she had gone guida drew herself up with a shiver. she was conscious that new senses and instincts were born in her, or were now first awakened to life. they were not yet under control, but she felt them, and in so far as she had power to think, she used them. leaving the house and stepping into the place du vier prison, she walked quietly and steadily up the rue d'driere. she did not notice that people she met glanced at her curiously, and turned to look after her as she hurried on. chapter xxvi it had been a hot, oppressive day, but when, a half-hour later, guida hastened back from a fruitless visit to the house of the dean, who was absent in england, a vast black cloud had drawn up from the south-east, dropping a curtain of darkness upon the town. as she neared the doorway of the cottage, a few heavy drops began to fall, and, in spite of her bitter trouble, she quickened her footsteps, fearing that her grandfather had come back, to find the house empty and no light or supper ready. m. de mauprat had preceded her by not more than five minutes. his footsteps across the place du vier prison had been unsteady, his head bowed, though more than once he raised it with a sort of effort, as it were in indignation or defiance. he muttered to himself as he opened the door, and he paused in the hall-way as though hesitating to go forward. after a moment he made a piteous gesture of his hand towards the kitchen, and whispered to himself in a kind of reassurance. then he entered the room and stood still. all was dark save for the glimmer of the fire. "guida! guida!" he said in a shaking, muffled voice. there was no answer. he put by his hat and stick in the corner, and felt his way to the great chair-he seemed to have lost his sight. finding the familiar, worn arm of the chair, he seated himself with a heavy sigh. his lips moved, and he shook his head now and then, as though in protest against some unspoken thought. presently he brought his clinched hand down heavily on the table, and said aloud: "they lie--they lie! the connetable lies! their tongues shall be cut out. . . . ah, my little, little child! . . . the connetable dared--he dared--to tell me this evil gossip--of the little one--of my guida!" he laughed contemptuously, but it was a crackling, dry laugh, painful in its cheerlessness. he drew his snuff-box from his pocket, opened it, and slowly taking a pinch, raised it towards his nose, but the hand paused half-way, as though a new thought arrested it. in the pause there came the sound of the front door opening, and then footsteps in the hall. the pinch of snuff fell from the fingers of the old man on to the white stuff of his short-clothes, but as guida entered the room and stood still a moment, he did not stir in his seat. the thundercloud had come still lower and the room was dark, the coals in the fireplace being now covered with grey ashes. "grandpethe! grandpethe!" guida said. he did not answer. his heart was fluttering, his tongue clove to the roof of his mouth, dry and thick. now he should know the truth, now he should be sure that they had lied about his little guida, those slanderers of the vier marchi. yet, too, he had a strange, depressing fear, at variance with his loving faith and belief that in guida there was no wrong: such belief as has the strong swimmer that he can reach the shore through wave and tide; yet also with strange foreboding, prelude to the cramp that makes powerless, defying youth, strength, and skill. he could not have spoken if it had been to save his own life--or hers. getting no answer to her words, guida went first to the hearth and stirred the fire, the old man sitting rigid in his chair and regarding her with fixed, watchful eyes. then she found two candles and lighted them, placing them on the mantel, and turning to the crasset hanging by its osier rings from a beam, slowly lighted it. turning round, she was full in the light of the candles and the shooting flames of the fire. de mauprat's eyes had followed her every motion, unconscious of his presence as she was. this--this was not the guida he had known! this was not his grandchild, this woman with the pale, cold face, and dark, unhappy eyes; this was not the laughing girl who but yesterday was a babe at his knee. this was not-the truth, which had yet been before his blinded eyes how long! burst upon him. the shock of it snapped the filmy thread of being. as the escaping soul found its wings, spread them, and rose from that dun morass called life, the sieur de mauprat, giving a long, deep sigh, fell back in his great arm-chair dead, and the silver snuff-box rattled to the floor. guida turned round with a sharp cry. running to him, she lifted up the head that lay over on his shoulder. she felt his pulse, she called to him. opening his waistcoat, she put her ear to his heart; but it was still--still. a mist, a blackness, came over her own eyes, and without a cry or a word, she slid to the floor unconscious, as the black thunderstorm broke upon the place du vier prison. the rain was like a curtain let down between the prying, clattering world without and the strange peace within: the old man in his perfect sleep; the young, misused wife in that passing oblivion borrowed from death and as tender and compassionate while it lasts. as though with merciful indulgence, fate permitted no one to enter upon the dark scene save a woman in whom was a deep motherhood which had never nourished a child, and to whom this silence and this sorrow gave no terrors. silence was her constant companion, and for sorrow she had been granted the touch that assuages the sharpness of pain and the love called neighbourly kindness. maitresse aimable came. unto her it was given to minister here. as the night went by, and the offices had been done for the dead, she took her place by the bedside of the young wife, who lay staring into space, tearless and still, the life consuming away within her. in the front room of the cottage, his head buried in his hands, ranulph delagarde sat watching beside the body of the sieur de mauprat. chapter xxvii in the rue d'driere, the undertaker and his head apprentice were right merry. but why should they not be? people had to die, quoth the undertaker, and when dead they must be buried. burying was a trade, and wherefore should not one--discreetly--be cheerful at one's trade? in undertaking there were many miles to trudge with coffins in a week, and the fixed, sad, sympathetic look long custom had stereotyped was wearisome to the face as a cast of plaster-of-paris. moreover, the undertaker was master of ceremonies at the house of bereavement as well. he not only arranged the funeral, he sent out the invitations to the "friends of deceased, who are requested to return to the house of the mourners after the obsequies for refreshment." all the preparations for this feast were made by the undertaker--master of burials he chose to be called. once, after a busy six months, in which a fever had carried off many a jersiais, the master of burials had given a picnic to his apprentices, workmen, and their families. at this buoyant function he had raised his glass and with playful plaintiveness proposed: "the day we celebrate!" he was in a no less blithesome mood this day. the head apprentice was reading aloud the accounts for the burials of the month, while the master checked off the items, nodding approval, commenting, correcting or condemning with strange expletives. "don't gabble, gabble next one slowlee!" said the master of burials, as the second account was laid aside, duly approved. "eh ben, now let's hear the next--who is it?" "that josue anquetil," answered the apprentice. the master of burials rubbed his hands together with a creepy sort of glee. "ah, that was a clever piece of work! too little of a length and a width for the box, but let us be thankful--it might have been too short, and it wasn't." "no danger of that, pardingue!" broke in the apprentice. "the first it belonged to was a foot longer than josue--he." "but i made the most of josue," continued the master. "the mouth was crooked, but he was clean, clean--i shaved him just in time. and he had good hair for combing to a peaceful look, and he was light to carry--o my good! go on, what has josue the centenier to say for himself?" with a drawling dull indifference, the lank, hatchet-faced servitor of the master servitor of the grave read off the items: the relict of josue anquetil, centenier, in account with etienne mahye, master of burials. item: livres. sols. farth. paid to gentlemen of vingtaine, who carried him to his grave .................. 4 4 0 ditto to me, etienne mahye, for proper gloves of silk and cotton ................. 1 0 0 ditto to me, e. m., for laying of him out and all that appertains ............... 0 7 0 ditto to me, e. m., for coffin ............ 4 0 0 ditto to me, e. m., for divers ............ 0 4 0 the master of burials interrupted. "bat'dlagoule, you've forgot blacking for coffin!" the apprentice made the correction without deigning reply, and then went on livres. sols. farth. ditto to me, e. m., for black for blacking coffin .................................... 0 3 0 ditto to me, e. m., paid out for supper after obs'quies ........................... 3 2 0 ditto to me, e. m., paid out for wine (3 pots and 1 pt. at a shilling) for ditto ..................................... 2 5 6 ditto to me, e. m., paid out for oil and candle .................................... 0 7 0 ditto to me, e. m., given to the poor, as fitting station of deceased ............... 4 0 0 the apprentice stopped. "that's all," he said. there was a furious leer on the face of the master of burials. so, after all his care, apprentices would never learn to make mistakes on his side. "o my grief, always on the side of the corpse, that can thank nobody for naught!" was his snarling comment. "what about those turnips from denise gareau, numskull?" he grunted, in a voice between a sneer and a snort. the apprentice was unmoved. he sniffed, rubbed his nose with a forefinger, laboriously wrote for a moment, and then added: ditto to madame denise gareau for turnips for supper after obs'quies ...................... 10 sols "saperlote, leave out the madame, calf-lugs--, you!" the apprentice did not move a finger. obstinacy sat enthroned on him. in a rage, the master made a snatch at a metal flower-wreath to throw at him. "shan't! she's my aunt. i knows my duties to my aunt--me," said the apprentice stolidly. the master burst out in a laugh of scorn. "gaderabotin, here's family pride for you! i'll go stick dandelines in my old sow's ear--respe d'la compagnie." the apprentice was still calm. "if you want to flourish yourself, don't mind me," said he, and picking up the next account, he began reading: mademoiselle landresse, in the matter of the burial of the sieur de mauprat, to etienne mahye, &c. item-the first words read by the apprentice had stilled the breaking storm of the master's anger. it dissolved in a fragrant dew of proud reminiscence, profit, and scandal. he himself had no open prejudices. he was an official of the public--or so he counted himself--and he very shrewdly knew his duty in that walk of life to which it had pleased heaven to call him. the greater the notoriety of the death, the more in evidence was the master and all his belongings. death with honour was an advantage to him; death with disaster a boon; death with scandal was a godsend. it brought tears of gratitude to his eyes when the death and the scandal were in high places. these were the only real tears he ever shed. his heart was in his head, and the head thought solely of etienne mahye. though he wore an air of sorrow and sympathy in public, he had no more feeling than a hangman. his sympathy seemed to say to the living, "i wonder how soon you'll come into my hands," and to the dead, "what a pity you can only die once--and second-hand coffins so hard to get!" item: paid to me, etienne mahye, droned the voice of the apprentice, for rosewood coffin-"o my good," interrupted the master of burials with a barren chuckle, and rubbing his hands with glee, "o my good, that was a day in a lifetime! i've done fine work in my time, but upon that day--not a cloud above, no dust beneath, a flowing tide, and a calm sea. the royal court, too, caught on a sudden marching in their robes, turns to and joins the cortegee, and the little birds a-tweeting-tweeting, and two parsons at the grave. pardingue, the lord was--with me that day, and--" the apprentice laughed--a dry, mirthless laugh of disbelief and ridicule. "ba su, master, the lord was watching you. there was two silver bits inside that coffin, on sieur's eyes." "bigre!" the master was pale with rage. his lips drew back, disclosing long dark teeth and sickly gums, in a grimace of fury. he reached out to seize a hammer lying at his hand, but the apprentice said quickly: "sapri--that's the cholera hammer!" the master of burials dropped the hammer as though it were at white heat, and eyed it with scared scrutiny. this hammer had been used in nailing down the coffins of six cholera patients who had died in one house at rozel bay a year before. the master would not himself go near the place, so this apprentice had gone, on a promise from the royal court that he should have for himself--this he demanded as reward--free lodging in two small upper rooms of the cohue royale, just under the bell which said to the world, "chicane--chicane! chicane--chicane!" this he asked, and this he got, and he alone of all jersey went out to bury three people who had died of cholera; and then to watch three others die, to bury them scarce cold, and come back, with a leer of satisfaction, to claim his price. at first people were inclined to make a hero of him, but that only made him grin the more, and at last the island reluctantly decided that he had done the work solely for fee and reward. the hammer used in nailing the coffins, he had carried through the town like an emblem of terror and death, and henceforth he only, in the shop of the master, touched it. "it won't hurt you if you leave it alone," said the apprentice grimly to the master of burials. "but, if you go bothering, i'll put it in your bed, and it'll do after to nail down your coffin." then he went on reading with a malicious calmness, as though the matter were the dullest trifle: item: one dozen pairs of gloves for mourners. "par made, that's one way of putting it!" commented the apprentice, "for what mourners was there but ma'm'selle herself, and she quiet as a mice, and not a teardrop, and all the island necks end to end for look at her, and you, master, whispering to her: 'the lord is the giver and taker,' and the femme de ballast t'other side, saying 'my dee-ar, my dee-ar, bear thee up, bear thee up--thee.'" "and she looking so steady in front of her, as if never was shame about her--and her there soon to be; and no ring of gold upon her hand, and all the world staring!" broke in the master, who, having edged away from the cholera hammer, was launched upon a theme that stirred his very soul. "all the world staring, and good reason," he added. "and she scarce winking, eh?" said the apprentice. "true that--her eyes didn't feel the cold," said the master of burials with a leer, for to his sight as to that of others, only as boldness had been guida's bitter courage, the blank, despairing gaze, coming from eyes that turn their agony inward. the apprentice took up the account again, and prepared to read it. the master, however, had been roused to a genial theme. "poor fallen child of nature!" said he. "for what is birth or what is looks of virtue like a summer flower! it is to be brought down by hand of man." he was warmed to his text. habit had long made him so much hypocrite, that he was sentimentalist and hard materialist in one. "some pend'loque has brought her beauty to this pass, but she must suffer--and also his time will come, the sulphur, the torment, the worm that dieth not--and no abraham for parched tongue--misery me! they that meet in sin here shall meet hereafter in burning fiery furnace." the cackle of the apprentice rose above the whining voice. "murder, too --don't forget the murder, master. the connetable told the old sieur de mauprat what people were blabbing, and in half-hour dead he is--he." "et ben, the sieur's blood it is upon their heads," continued the master of burials; "it will rise up from the ground--" the apprentice interrupted. "a good thing if the sieur himself doesn't rise, for you'd get naught for coffin or obs'quies. it was you tells the connetable what folks babbled, and the connetable tells the sieur, and the sieur it kills him dead. so if he rised, he'd not pay you for murdering him--no, bidemme! and 'tis a gobbly mouthful--this," he added, holding up the bill. the undertaker's lips smacked softly, as though in truth he were waiting for the mouthful. rubbing his hands, and drawing his lean leg up till it touched his nose, he looked over it with avid eyes, and said: "how much-don't read the items, but come to total debit--how much she pays me?" ma'm'selle landresse, debtor in all for one hundred and twenty livres, eleven sols and two farthings. shan't you make it one hundred and twenty-one livres?" added the apprentice. "god forbid, the odd sols and farthings are mine--no more!" returned the master of burials. "also they look exact; but the courage it needs to be honest! o my grief, if--" "'sh!" said the apprentice, pointing, and the master of burials, turning, saw guida pass the window. with a hungry instinct for the morbid they stole to the doorway and looked down the rue d'driere after her. the master was sympathetic, for had he not in his fingers at that moment a bill for a hundred and twenty livres odd? the way the apprentice craned his neck, and tightened the forehead over his large, protuberant eyes, showed his intense curiosity, but the face was implacable. it was like that of some strong fate, superior to all influences of sorrow, shame, or death. presently he laughed--a crackling cackle like new-lighted kindling wood; nothing could have been more inhuman in sound. what in particular aroused this arid mirth probably he himself did not know. maybe it was a native cruelty which had a sort of sardonic pleasure in the miseries of the world. or was it only the perception, sometimes given to the dullest mind, of the futility of goodness, the futility of all? this perhaps, since the apprentice shared with dormy jamais his rooms at the top of the cohue royale; and there must have been some natural bond of kindness between the blank, sardonic undertaker's apprentice and the poor beganne, who now officially rang the bell for the meetings of the royal court. the dry cackle of the apprentice as he looked after guida roused a mockery of indignation in the master. "sacre matin, a back-hander on the jaw'd do you good, slubberdegullion--you! ah, get go scrub the coffin blacking from your jowl!" he rasped out with furious contempt. the apprentice seemed not to hear, but kept on looking after guida, a pitiless leer on his face. "dame, lucky for her the sieur died before he had chance to change his will. she'd have got ni fiche ni bran from him." "support d'en haut, if you don't stop that i'll give you a coffin before your time, keg of nails--you. sorrow and prayer at the throne of grace that she may have a contrite heart"--he clutched the funeral bill tighter in his fingers--"is what we must feel for her. the day the sieur died and it all came out, i wept. bedtime come i had to sop my eyes with elder-water. the day o' the burial mine eyes were so sore a-draining i had to put a rotten sweet apple on 'em over-night--me." "ah bah, she doesn't need rosemary wash for her hair!" said the apprentice admiringly, looking down the street after guida as she turned into the rue d'egypte. perhaps it was a momentary sympathy for beauty in distress which made the master say, as he backed from the doorway with stealthy step: "gatd'en'ale, 'tis well she has enough to live on, and to provide for what's to come!" but if it was a note of humanity in the voice it passed quickly, for presently, as he examined the bill for the funeral of the sieur de mauprat, he said shrilly: "achocre, you've left out the extra satin for his pillow--you." "there wasn't any extra satin," drawled the apprentice. with a snarl the master of burials seized a pen and wrote in the account: item: to extra satin for pillow, three livres. chapter xxviii guida's once blithe, rose-coloured face was pale as ivory, the mouth had a look of deep sadness, and the step was slow; but the eye was clear and steady, and her hair, brushed under the black crape of the bonnet as smoothly as its nature would admit, gave to the broad brow a setting of rare attraction and sombre nobility. it was not a face that knew inward shame, but it carried a look that showed knowledge of life's cruelties and a bitter sensitiveness to pain. above all else it was fearless, and it had no touch of the consciousness or the consequences of sin; it was purity itself. it alone should have proclaimed abroad her innocence, though she said no word in testimony. to most people, however, her dauntless sincerity only added to her crime and to the scandalous mystery. yet her manner awed some, while her silence held most back. the few who came to offer sympathy, with curiousness in their eyes and as much inhumanity as pity in their hearts, were turned back gently but firmly, more than once with proud resentment. so it chanced that soon only maitresse aimable came--she who asked no questions, desired no secrets--and dormy jamais. dormy had of late haunted the precincts of the place du vier prison, and was the only person besides maitresse aimable whom guida welcomed. his tireless feet went clac-clac past her doorway, or halted by it, or entered in when it pleased him. he was more a watch-dog than biribi; he fetched and carried; he was silent and sleepless--always sleepless. it was as if some past misfortune had opened his eyes to the awful bitterness of life, and they had never closed again. the chevalier had not been with her, for on the afternoon of the very day her grandfather died, he had gone a secret voyage to st. malo, to meet the old solicitor of his family. he knew nothing of his friend's death or of guida's trouble. as for carterette, guida would not let her come --for her own sake. nor did maitre ranulph visit her after the funeral of the sieur de mauprat. the horror of the thing had struck him dumb, and his mind was one confused mass of conflicting thoughts. there--there were the terrifying facts before him; yet, with an obstinacy peculiar to him, he still went on believing in her goodness and in her truth. of the man who had injured her he had no doubt, and his course was clear, in the hour when he and philip d'avranche should meet. meanwhile, from a spirit of delicacy, avoiding the place du vier prison, he visited maitresse aimable, and from day to day learned all that happened to guida. as of old, without her knowledge, he did many things for her through the same maitresse aimable. and it quickly came to be known in the island that any one who spoke ill of guida in his presence did so at no little risk. at first there had been those who marked him as the wrongdoer, but somehow that did not suit with the case, for it was clear he loved guida now as he had always done; and this the world knew, as it had known that he would have married her all too gladly. presently detricand and philip were the only names mentioned, but at last, as by common consent, philip was settled upon, for such evidence as there was pointed that way. the gossips set about to recall all that had happened when philip was in jersey last. here one came forward with a tittle of truth, and there another with tattle of falsehood, and at last as wild a story was fabricated as might be heard in a long day. but in bitterness guida kept her own counsel. this day when she passed the undertaker's shop she had gone to visit the grave of her grandfather. he had died without knowing the truth, and her heart was hardened against him who had brought misery upon her. reaching the cottage in the place du vier prison now, she took from a drawer the letter philip had written her on the day he first met the comtesse chantavoine. she had received it a week ago. she read it through slowly, shuddering a little once or twice. when she had finished, she drew paper to her and began a reply. the first crisis of her life was passed. she had met the shock of utter disillusion; her own perfect honesty now fathomed the black dishonesty of the man she had loved. death had come with sorrow and unmerited shame. but an innate greatness, a deep courage supported her. out of her wrongs and miseries now she made a path for her future, and in that path philip's foot should never be set. she had thought and thought, and had come to her decision. in one month she had grown years older in mind. sorrow gave her knowledge, it threw her back on her native strength and goodness. rising above mere personal wrongs she grew to a larger sense of womanhood, to a true understanding of her position and its needs. she loved no longer, but philip was her husband by the law, and even as she had told him her whole mind and heart in the days of their courtship and marriage, she would tell him her whole mind and heart now. once more, to satisfy the bond, to give full reasons for what she was about to do, she would open her soul to her husband, and then no more! in all she wrote she kept but two things back, her grandfather's death--and one other. these matters belonged to herself alone. no, philip d'avranche, [she wrote], your message came too late. all that you might have said and done should have been said and done long ago, in that past which i believe in no more. i will not ask you why you acted as you did towards me. words can alter nothing now. once i thought you true, and this letter you send would have me still believe so. do you then think so ill of my intelligence? in the light of the past it may be you have reason, for you know that i once believed in you! think of it--believed in you! how bad a man are you! in spite of all your promises; in spite of the surrender of honest heart and life to you; in spite of truth and every call of honour, you denied me--dared to deny me, at the very time you wrote this letter. for the hopes and honours of this world, you set aside, first by secrecy, and then by falsehood, the helpless girl to whom you once swore undying love. you, who knew the open book of her heart, you threw it in the dust. "of course there is no wife?" the duc de bercy said to you before the states of bercy. "of course," you answered. you told your lie without pity. were you blind that you did not see the consequences? or did you not feel the horror of your falsehood?--to play shuttlecock with a woman's life, with the soul of your wife; for that is what your conduct means. did you not realise it, or were you so wicked that you did not care? for i know that before you wrote me this letter, and afterwards when you had been made prince, and heir to the duchy, the comtesse chantavoine was openly named by the duc de bercy for your wife. now read the truth. i understand all now. i am no longer the thoughtless, believing girl whom you drew from her simple life to give her so cruel a fate. yesterday i was a child, to-day----oh, above all else, do you think i can ever forgive you for having killed the faith, the joy of life that was in me! you have spoiled for me for ever my rightful share of the joyous and the good. my heart is sixty though my body is not twenty. how dared you rob me of all that was my birthright, of all that was my life, and give me nothing--nothing in return! do you remember how i begged you not to make me marry you; but you urged me, and because i loved you and trusted you, i did? how i entreated you not to make me marry you secretly, but you insisted, and loving you, i did? how you promised you would leave me at the altar and not see me till you came again to claim me openly for your wife, and you broke that sacred promise? do you remember--my husband! do you remember that night in the garden when the wind came moaning up from the sea? do you remember how you took me in your arms, and even while i listened to your tender and assuring words, in that moment--ah, the hurt and the wrong and the shame of it! afterwards in the strange confusion, in my blind helplessness i tried to say, "but he loved me," and i tried to forgive you. perhaps in time i might have made myself believe i did; for then i did not know you as you are--and were; but understanding all now i feel that in that hour i really ceased to love you; and when at last i knew you had denied me, love was buried for ever. your worst torment is to come, mine has already been with me. when my miseries first fell upon me, i thought that i must die. why should i live on--why should i not die? the sea was near, and it buries deep. i thought of all the people that live on the great earth, and i said to myself that the soul of one poor girl could not count, that it could concern no one but myself. it was clear to me --i must die and end all. but there came to me a voice in the night which said: "is thy life thine own to give or to destroy?" it was clearer than my own thinking. it told my heart that death by one's own hand meant shame; and i saw then that to find rest i must drag unwilling feet over the good name and memory of my dead loved ones. then i remembered my mother. if you had remembered her perhaps you would have guarded the gift of my love and not have trampled it under your feet--i remembered my mother, and so i live still. i must go on alone, with naught of what makes life bearable; you will keep climbing higher by your vanity, your strength, and your deceit. but yet i know however high you climb you will never find peace. you will remember me, and your spirit will seek in vain for rest. you will not exist for me, you will not be even a memory; but even against your will i shall always be part of you: of your brain, of your heart, of your soul--the thought of me your torment in your greatest hour. your passion and your cowardice have lost me all; and god will punish you, be sure of that. there is little more to say. if it lies in my power i shall never see you again while i live. and you will not wish it. yes, in spite of your eloquent letter lying here beside me, you do not wish it, and it shall not be. i am not your wife save by the law; and little have you cared for law! little, too, would the law help you in this now; for which you will rejoice. for the ease of your mind i hasten to tell you why. first let me inform you that none in this land knows me to be your wife. your letter to my grandfather never reached him, and to this hour i have held my peace. the clergyman who married us is a prisoner among the french, and the strong-box which held the register of st. michael's church was stolen. the one other witness, mr. shoreham, your lieutenant--as you tell me--went down with the araminta. so you are safe in your denial of me. for me, i would endure all the tortures of the world rather than call you husband ever again. i am firmly set to live my own life, in my own way, with what strength god gives. at last i see beyond the hedge. your course is clear. you cannot turn back now. you have gone too far. your new honours and titles were got at the last by a falsehood. to acknowledge it would be ruin, for all the world knows that captain philip d'avranche of the king's navy is now the adopted son of the duc de bercy. surely the house of bercy has cause for joy, with an imbecile for the first in succession and a traitor for the second! i return the fifty pounds you sent me--you will not question why ....and so all ends. this is a last farewell between us. do you remember what you said to me on the ecrehos? "if ever i deceive you, may i die a black, dishonourable death, abandoned and alone. i should deserve that if ever i deceived you, guida." will you ever think of that, in your vain glory hereafter? guida landresse de landresse. in jersey five years later chapter xxix on a map the isle of jersey has the shape and form of a tiger on the prowl. the fore-claws of this tiger are the lacerating pinnacles of the corbiere and the impaling rocks of portelet bay and noirmont; the hind-claws are the devastating diorite reefs of la motte and the banc des violets. the head and neck, terrible and beautiful, are stretched out towards the west, as it were to scan the wild waste and jungle of the atlantic seas. the nose is l'etacq, the forehead grosnez, the ear plemont, the mouth the dark cavern by l'etacq, and the teeth are the serried ledges of the foret de la brequette. at a discreet distance from the head and the tail hover the jackals of la manche: the paternosters, the dirouilles, and the ecrehos, themselves destroying where they may, or filching the remains of the tiger's feast of shipwreck and ruin. in truth, the sleek beast, with its feet planted in fearsome rocks and tides, and its ravening head set to defy the onslaught of the main, might, but for its ensnaring beauty, seem some monstrous foot-pad of the deep. to this day the tiger's head is the lonely part of jersey; a hundred years ago it was as distant from the vier marchi as is penzance from covent garden. it would almost seem as if the people of jersey, like the hangers-on of the king of the jungle, care not to approach too near the devourer's head. even now there is but a dwelling here and there upon the lofty plateau, and none at all near the dark and menacing headland. but as if the ancient royal court was determined to prove its sovereignty even over the tiger's head, it stretched out its arms from the vier marchi to the bare neck of the beast, putting upon it a belt of defensive war; at the nape, a martello tower and barracks; underneath, two other martello towers like the teeth of a buckle. the rest of the island was bristling with armament. tall platforms were erected at almost speaking distance from each other, where sentinels kept watch for french frigates or privateers. redoubts and towers were within musket-shot of each other, with watch-houses between, and at intervals every able-bodied man in the country was obliged to leave his trade to act as sentinel, or go into camp or barracks with the militia for months at a time. british cruisers sailed the channel: now a squadron under barrington, again under bridport, hovered upon the coast, hoping that a french fleet might venture near. but little of this was to be seen in the western limits of the parish of st. ouen's. plemont, grosnez, l'etacq, all that giant headland could well take care of itself--the precipitous cliffs were their own defence. a watch-house here and there sufficed. no one lived at l'etacq, no one at grosnez; they were too bleak, too distant and solitary. there were no houses, no huts. if you had approached plemont from vinchelez-le-haut, making for the sea, you would have said that it also had no habitation. but when at last you came to a hillock near plemont point, looking to find nothing but sky and sea and distant islands, suddenly at your very feet you saw a small stone dwelling. its door faced the west, looking towards the isles of guernsey and sark. fronting the north was a window like an eye, ever watching the tireless paternosters. to the east was another tiny window like a deep loop-hole or embrasure set towards the dirouilles and the ecrehos. the hut had but one room, of moderate size, with a vast chimney. between the chimney and the western wall was a veille, which was both lounge and bed. the eastern side was given over to a few well-polished kitchen utensils, a churn, and a bread-trough. the floor was of mother earth alone, but a strip of handmade carpet was laid down before the fireplace, and there was another at the opposite end. there were also a table, a spinning-wheel, and a shelf of books. it was not the hut of a fisherman, though upon the wall opposite the books there hung fishing-tackle, nets, and cords, while outside, on staples driven in the jutting chimney, were some lobster-pots. upon two shelves were arranged a carpenter's and a cooper's tools, polished and in good order. and yet you would have said that neither a cooper nor a carpenter kept them in use. everywhere there were signs of man's handicraft as well as of woman's work, but upon all was the touch of a woman. moreover, apart from the tools there was no sign of a man's presence in the hut. there was no coat hanging behind the door, no sabots for the fields or oilskins for the sands, no pipe laid upon a ledge, no fisherman's needle holding a calendar to the wall. whatever was the trade of the occupant, the tastes were above those of the ordinary dweller in the land. that was to be seen in a print of raphael's "madonna and child" taking the place of the usual sampler upon the walls of jersey homes; in the old clock nicely bestowed between a narrow cupboard and the tool shelves; in a few pieces of rare old china and a gold-handled sword hanging above a huge, well-carved oak chair. the chair relieved the room of anything like commonness, and somehow was in sympathy with the simple surroundings, making for dignity and sweet quiet. it was clear that only a woman could have arranged so perfectly this room and all therein. it was also clear that no man lived here. looking in at the doorway of this hut on a certain autumn day of the year 1797, the first thing to strike your attention was a dog lying asleep on the hearth. then a suit of child's clothes on a chair before the fire of vraic would have caught the eye. the only thing to distinguish this particular child's dress from that of a thousand others in the island was the fineness of the material. every thread of it had been delicately and firmly knitted, till it was like perfect soft blue cloth, relieved by a little red silk ribbon at the collar. the hut contained as well a child's chair, just so high that when placed by the windows commanding the paternosters its occupant might see the waves, like panthers, beating white paws against the ragged granite pinnacles; the currents writhing below at the foot of the cliffs, or at half-tide rushing up to cover the sands of the greve aux langons, and like animals in pain, howling through the caverns in the cliffs; the great nor'wester of november come battering the rocks, shrieking to the witches who boiled their caldrons by the ruins of grosnez castle that the hunt of the seas was up. just high enough was the little chair that of a certain day in the year its owner might look out and see mystic fires burning round the paternosters, and lighting up the sea with awful radiance. scarce a rock to be seen from the hut but had some legend like this: the burning russian ship at the paternosters, the fleet of boats with tall prows and long oars drifting upon the dirouilles and going down to the cry of the crusaders' dahindahin! the roche des femmes at the ecrehos, where still you may hear the cries of women in terror of the engulfing sea. on this particular day, if you had entered the hut, no one would have welcomed you; but had you tired of waiting, and followed the indentations of the coast for a mile or more by a deep bay under tall cliffs, you would have seen a woman and a child coming quickly up the sands. slung upon the woman's shoulders was a small fisherman's basket. the child ran before, eager to climb the hill and take the homeward path. a man above was watching them. he had ridden along the cliff, had seen the woman in her boat making for the shore, had tethered his horse in the quarries near by, and now awaited her. he chuckled as she came on, for he had ready a surprise for her. to make it more complete he hid himself behind some boulders, and as she reached the top sprang out with an ugly grinning. the woman looked at him calmly and waited for him to speak. there was no fear on her face, not even surprise; nothing but steady inquiry and quiet self-possession. with an air of bluster the man said: "aha, my lady, i'm nearer than you thought--me!" the child drew in to its mother's side and clasped her hand. there was no fear in the little fellow's look, however; he had something of the same self-possession as the woman, and his eyes were like hers, clear, unwavering, and with a frankness that consumed you. they were wells of sincerity; open-eyed, you would have called the child, wanting a more subtle description. "i'm not to be fooled-me! come now, let's have the count," said the man, as he whipped a greasy leather-covered book from his pocket. "sapristi, i'm waiting. stay yourself!" he added roughly as she moved on, and his greyish-yellow face had an evil joy at thought of the brutal work in hand. "who are you?" she asked, but taking her time to speak. "dame! you know who i am." "i know what you are," she answered quietly. he did not quite grasp her meaning, but the tone sounded contemptuous, and that sorted little with his self-importance. "i'm the seigneur's bailiff--that's who i am. gad'rabotin, don't you put on airs with me! i'm for the tribute, so off with the bag and let's see your catch." "i have never yet paid tribute to the seigneur of the manor." "well, you'll begin now. i'm the new bailiff, and if you don't pay your tale, up you come to the court of the fief to-morrow." she looked him clearly in the eyes. "if i were a man, i should not pay the tribute, and i should go to the court of the fief to-morrow, but being a woman--" she clasped the hand of the child tightly to her for an instant, then with a sigh she took the basket from her shoulders and, opening it, added: "but being a woman, the fish i caught in the sea that belongs to god and to all men i must divide with the seigneur whose bailiff spies on poor fisher-folk." the man growled an oath and made a motion as though he would catch her by the shoulder in anger, but the look in her eyes stopped him. counting out the fish, and giving him three out of the eight she had caught, she said: "it matters not so much to me, but there are others poorer than i, they suffer." with a leer the fellow stooped, and, taking up the fish, put them in the pockets of his queminzolle, all slimy from the sea as they were. "ba su, you haven't got much to take care of, have you? it don't take much to feed two mouths--not so much as it does three, ma'm'selle." before he had ended, the woman, without reply to the insult, took the child by the hand and moved along her homeward path towards plemont. "a bi'tot, good-bye!" the bailiff laughed brutally. standing with his legs apart and his hands fastened on the fish in the pockets of his long queminzolle, he called after her in sneering comment: "ma fistre, your pride didn't fall--ba su!" then he turned on his heel. "eh ben, here's mackerel for supper," he added as he mounted his horse. the woman was guida landresse, the child was her child, and they lived in the little house upon the cliff at plemont. they were hastening thither now. chapter xxx a visitor was awaiting guida and the child: a man who, first knocking at the door, then looking in and seeing the room empty, save for the dog lying asleep by the fire, had turned slowly away, and going to the cliff edge, looked out over the sea. his movements were deliberate, his body moved slowly; the whole appearance was of great strength and nervous power. the face was preoccupied, the eyes were watchful, dark, penetrating. they seemed not only to watch but to weigh, to meditate, even to listen--as it were, to do the duty of all the senses at once. in them worked the whole forces of his nature; they were crucibles wherein every thought and emotion were fused. the jaw was set and strong, yet it was not hard. the face contradicted itself. while not gloomy it had lines like scars telling of past wounds. it was not despairing, it was not morbid, and it was not resentful; it had the look of one both credulous and indomitable. belief was stamped upon it; not expectation or ambition, but faith and fidelity. you would have said he was a man of one set idea, though the head had a breadth sorting little with narrowness of purpose. the body was too healthy to belong to a fanatic, too powerful to be that of a dreamer alone, too firm for other than a man of action. several times he turned to look towards the house and up the pathway leading from the hillock to the doorway. though he waited long he did not seem impatient; patience was part of him, and not the least part. at last he sat down on a boulder between the house and the shore, and scarcely moved, as minute after minute passed, and then an hour and more, and no one came. presently there was a soft footstep beside him, and he turned. a dog's nose thrust itself into his hand. "biribi, biribi!" he said, patting its head with his big hand. "watching and waiting, eh, old biribi?" the dog looked into his eyes as if he knew what was said, and would speak--or, indeed, was speaking in his own language. "that's the way of life, biribi--watching and waiting, and watching--always watching." suddenly the dog caught its head away from his hand, gave a short joyful bark, and ran slowly up the hillock. "guida and the child," the man said aloud, moving towards the house-"guida and the child!" he saw her and the little one before they saw him. presently the child said: "see, maman," and pointed. guida started. a swift flush passed over her face, then she smiled and made a step forward to meet her visitor. "maitre ranulph--ranulph!" she said, holding out her hand. "it's a long time since we met." "a year," he answered simply, "just a year." he looked down at the child, then stooped, caught him up in his arms and said: "he's grown. es-tu gentiment?" he added to the child--"es-tu gentiment, m'sieu'?" the child did not quite understand. "please?" it said in true jersey fashion--at which the mother was troubled. "o guilbert, is that what you should say?" she asked. the child looked up quaintly at her, and with the same whimsical smile which guida had given to another so many years ago, he looked at ranulph and said: "pardon, monsieur." "coum est qu'on etes, m'sieu'?" said ranulph in another patois greeting. guida shook her head reprovingly. the child glanced swiftly at his mother as though asking permission to reply as he wished, then back at ranulph, and was about to speak, when guida said: "i have not taught him the jersey patois, ranulph; only english and french." her eyes met his clearly, meaningly. her look said to him as plainly as words, the child's destiny is not here in jersey. but as if he knew that in this she was blinding herself, and that no one can escape the influences of surroundings, he held the child back from him, and said with a smile: "coum est qu'on vos portest?" now the child with elfish sense of the situation replied in jersey english: "naicely, thenk you." "you see," said ranulph to guida, "there are things in us stronger than we are. the wind, the sea, and people we live with, they make us sing their song one way or another. it's in our bones." a look of pain passed over guida's face, and she did not reply to his remark, but turned almost abruptly to the doorway, saying, with just the slightest hesitation: "you will come in?" there was no hesitation on his part. "oui-gia!" he said, and stepped inside. she hastily hung up the child's cap and her own, and as she gathered in the soft, waving hair, ranulph noticed how the years had only burnished it more deeply and strengthened the beauty of the head. she had made the gesture unconsciously, but catching the look in his eye a sudden thrill of anxiety ran through her. recovering herself, however, and with an air of bright friendliness, she laid a hand upon the great arm-chair, above which hung the ancient sword of her ancestor, the comte guilbert mauprat de chambery, and said: "sit here, ranulph." seating himself he gave a heavy sigh--one of those passing breaths of content which come to the hardest lives now and then: as though the spirit of life itself, in ironical apology for human existence, gives moments of respite from which hope is born again. not for over four long years had ranulph sat thus quietly in the presence of guida. at first, when maitresse aimable had told him that guida was leaving the place du vier prison to live in this lonely place with her newborn child, he had gone to entreat her to remain; but maitresse aimable had been present then, and all that he could say--all that he might speak out of his friendship, out of the old love, now deep pity and sorrow--was of no avail. it had been borne in upon him then that she was not morbid, but that her mind had a sane, fixed purpose which she was intent to fulfil. it was as though she had made some strange covenant with a little helpless life, with a little face that was all her face; and that covenant she would keep. so he had left her, and so to do her service had been granted elsewhere. the chevalier, with perfect wisdom and nobility, insisted on being to guida what he had always been, accepting what was as though it had always been, and speaking as naturally of her and the child as though there had always been a guida and the child. thus it was that he counted himself her protector, though he sat far away in the upper room of elie mattingley's house in the rue d'egypte, thinking his own thoughts, biding the time when she should come back to the world, and mystery be over, and happiness come once more; hoping only that he might live to see it. under his directions, jean touzel had removed the few things that guida took with her to plemont; and instructed by him, elie mattingley sold her furniture. thus guida had settled at plemont, and there over four years of her life were passed. "your father--how is he?" she asked presently. "feeble," replied ranulph; "he goes abroad but little now." "it was said the royal court was to make him a gift, in remembrance of the battle of jersey." ranulph turned his head away from her to the child, and beckoned him over. the child came instantly. as ranulph lifted him on his knee he answered guida: "my father did not take it." "then they said you were to be connetable--the grand monsieur. "she smiled at him in a friendly way. "they said wrong," replied ranulph. "most people would be glad of it," rejoined guida. "my mother used to say you would be bailly one day." "who knows--perhaps i might have been!" she looked at him half sadly, half curiously. "you--you haven't any ambitions now, maitre ranulph?" it suddenly struck her that perhaps she was responsible for the maiming of this man's life--for clearly it was maimed. more than once she had thought of it, but it came home to her to-day with force. years ago ranulph delagarde had been spoken of as one who might do great things, even to becoming bailly. in the eyes of a jerseyman to be bailly was to be great, with jurats sitting in a row on either side of him and more important than any judge in the kingdom. looking back now guida realised that ranulph had never been the same since that day on the ecrehos when his father had returned and philip had told his wild tale of love. a great bitterness suddenly welled up in her. without intention, without blame, she had brought suffering upon others. the untoward happenings of her life had killed her grandfather, had bowed and aged the old chevalier, had forced her to reject the friendship of carterette mattingley, for the girl's own sake; had made the heart of one fat old woman heavy within her; and, it would seem, had taken hope and ambition from the life of this man before her. love in itself is but a bitter pleasure; when it is given to the unworthy it becomes a torture--and so far as ranulph and the world knew she was wholly unworthy. of late she had sometimes wondered if, after all, she had had the right to do as she had done in accepting the public shame, and in not proclaiming the truth: if to act for one's own heart, feelings, and life alone, no matter how perfect the honesty, is not a sort of noble cruelty, or cruel nobility; an egotism which obeys but its own commandments, finding its own straight and narrow path by first disbarring the feelings and lives of others. had she done what was best for the child? misgiving upon this point made her heart ache bitterly. was life then but a series of trist condonings at the best, of humiliating compromises at the worst? she repeated her question to ranulph now. "you haven't ambition any longer?" "i'm busy building ships," he answered evasively. "i build good ships, they tell me, and i am strong and healthy. as for being connetable, i'd rather help prisoners free than hale them before the royal court. for somehow when you get at the bottom of most crimes--the small ones leastways--you find they weren't quite meant. i expect--i expect," he added gravely, "that half the crimes oughtn't to be punished at all; for it's queer that things which hurt most can't be punished by law." "perhaps it evens up in the long end," answered guida, turning away from him to the fire, and feeling her heart beat faster as she saw how the child nestled in ranulph's arms--her child which had no father. "you see," she added, "if some are punished who oughtn't to be, there are others who ought to be that aren't, and the worst of it is, we care so little for real justice that we often wouldn't punish if we could. i have come to feel that. sometimes if you do exactly what's right, you hurt some one you don't wish to hurt, and if you don't do exactly what's right, perhaps that some one else hurts you. so, often, we would rather be hurt than hurt." with the last words she turned from the fire and involuntarily faced him. their eyes met. in hers were only the pity of life, the sadness, the cruelty of misfortune, and friendliness for him. in his eyes was purpose definite, strong. he went over and put the child in its high chair. then coming a little nearer to guida, he said: "there's only one thing in life that really hurts--playing false." her heart suddenly stopped beating. what was ranulph going to say? after all these years was he going to speak of philip? but she did not reply according to her thought. "have people played false in your life--ever?" she asked. "if you'll listen to me i'll tell you how," he answered. "wait, wait," she said in trepidation. "it--it has nothing to do with me?" he shook his head. "it has only to do with my father and myself. when i've told you, then you must say whether you will have anything to do with it, or with me.... you remember," he continued, without waiting for her to speak, "you remember that day upon the ecrehos--five years ago? well, that day i had made up my mind to tell you in so many words what i hoped you had always known, guida. i didn't--why? not because of another man--no, no, i don't mean to hurt you, but i must tell you the truth now--not because of another man, for i should have bided my chance with him." "ranulph, ranulph," she broke in, "you must not speak of this now! do you not see it hurts me? it is not like you. it is not right of you--" a sudden emotion seized him, and his voice shook. "not right! you should know that i'd never say one word to hurt you, or do one thing to wrong you. but i must speak to-day-i must tell you everything. i've thought of it for four long years, and i know now that what i mean to do is right." she sat down in the great arm-chair. a sudden weakness came upon her: she was being brought face to face with days of which she had never allowed herself to think, for she lived always in the future now. "go on," she said helplessly. "what have you to say, ranulph?" "i will tell you why i didn't speak of my love to you that day we went to the ecrehos. my father came back that day." "yes, yes," she said; "of course you had to think of him." "yes, i had to think of him, but not in the way you mean. be patient a little while," he added. then in a few words he told her the whole story of his father's treachery and crime, from the night before the battle of jersey up to their meeting again upon the ecrehos. guida was amazed and moved. her heart filled with pity. "ranulph--poor ranulph!" she said, half rising in her seat. "no, no--wait," he rejoined. "sit where you are till i tell you all. guida, you don't know what a life it has been for me these four years. i used to be able to look every man in the face without caring whether he liked me or hated me, for then i had never lied, i had never done a mean thing to any man; i had never deceived--nannin-gia, never! but when my father came back, then i had to play a false game. he had lied, and to save him i either had to hold my peace or tell his story. speaking was lying or being silent was lying. mind you, i'm not complaining, i'm not saying it because i want any pity. no, i'm saying it because it's the truth, and i want you to know the truth. you understand what it means to feel right in your own mind--if you feel that way, the rest of life is easy. eh ben, what a thing it is to get up in the morning, build your fire, make your breakfast, and sit down facing a man whose whole life's a lie, and that man your own father! some morning perhaps you forget, and you go out into the sun, and it all seems good; and you take your tools and go to work, and the sea comes washing up the shingle, and you think that the shir-r-r-r of the water on the pebbles and the singing of the saw and the clang of the hammer are the best music in the world. but all at once you remember--and then you work harder, not because you love work now for its own sake, but because it uses up your misery and makes you tired; and being tired you can sleep, and in sleep you can forget. yet nearly all the time you're awake it fairly kills you, for you feel some one always at your elbow whispering, 'you'll never be happy again, you'll never be happy again!' and when you tell the truth about anything, that some one at your elbow laughs and says: 'nobody believes--your whole life's a lie!' and if the worst man you know passes you by, that some one at your elbow says: 'you can wear a mask, but you're no better than he, no better, no--"' while ranulph spoke guida's face showed a pity and a kindness as deep as the sorrow which had deepened her nature. she shook her head once or twice as though to say, surely, what suffering! and now this seemed to strike ranulph, to convict him of selfishness, for he suddenly stopped. his face cleared, and, smiling with a little of his old-time cheerfulness, he said: "yet one gets used to it and works on because one knows it will all come right sometime. i'm of the kind that waits." she looked up at him with her old wide-eyed steadfastness and replied: "you are a good man, ranulph." he stood gazing at her a moment without remark, then he said: "no, ba su, no! but it's like you to say i am." then he added suddenly: "i've told you the whole truth about myself and about my father. he did a bad thing, and i've stood by him. at first, i nursed my troubles and my shame. i used to think i couldn't live it out, that i had no right to any happiness. but i've changed my mind about that-oui-gia! as i hammered away at my ships month in month out, year in year out, the truth came home to me at last. what right had i to sit down and brood over my miseries? i didn't love my father, but i've done wrong for him, and i've stuck to him. well, i did love--and i do love--some one else, and i should only be doing right to tell her, and to ask her to let me stand with her against the world." he was looking down at her with all his story in his face. she put out her hand quickly as if in protest and said: "ranulph--ah no, ranulph--" "but yes, guida," he replied with stubborn tenderness, "it is you i mean --it is you i've always meant. you have always been a hundred times more to me than my father, but i let you fight your fight alone. i've waked up now to my mistake. but i tell you true that though i love you better than anything in the world, if things had gone well with you i'd never have come to you. i never came, because of my father, and i'd never have come because you are too far above me always--too fine, too noble for me. i only come now because we're both apart from the world and lonely beyond telling; because we need each other. i have just one thing to say: that we two should stand together. there's none ever can be so near as those that have had hard troubles, that have had bitter wrongs. and when there's love too, what can break the bond! you and i are apart from the world, a black loneliness no one understands. let us be lonely no longer. let us live our lives together. what shall we care for the rest of the world if we know we mean to do good and no wrong? so i've come to ask you to let me care for you and the child, to ask you to make my home your home. my father hasn't long to live, and when he is gone we could leave this island for ever. will you come, guida?" she had never taken her eyes from his face, and as his story grew her face lighted with emotion, the glow of a moment's content, of a fleeting joy. in spite of all, this man loved her, he wanted to marry her--in spite of all. glad to know that such men lived--and with how dark memories contrasting with this bright experience-she said to him once again: "you are a good man, ranulph." coming near to her, he said in a voice husky with feeling: "will you be my wife, guida?" she stood up, one hand resting on the arm of the great chair, the other half held out in pitying deprecation. "no, ranulph, no; i can never, never be your wife--never in this world." for an instant he looked at her dumfounded, then turned away to the fireplace slowly and heavily. "i suppose it was too much to hope for," he said bitterly. he realised now how much she was above him, even in her sorrow and shame. "you forget," she answered quietly, and her hand went out suddenly to the soft curls of the child, "you forget what the world says about me." there was a kind of fierceness in his look as he turned to her again. "me--i have always forgotten--everything," he answered. "have you thought that for all these years i've believed one word? secours d'la vie, of what use is faith, what use to trust, if you thought i believed! i do not know the truth, for you have not told me; but i do know, as i know i have a heart in me--i do know that there never was any wrong in you. it is you who forget," he added quickly--"it is you who forget. i tried to tell you all this before; three years ago i tried to tell you. you stopped me, you would not listen. perhaps you've thought i did not know what has happened to you every week, almost every day of your life? a hundred times i have walked here and you haven't seen me--when you were asleep, when you were fishing, when you were working like a man in the fields and the garden; you who ought to be cared for by a man, working like a slave at man's work. but, no, no, you have not thought well of me, or you would have known that every day i cared, every day i watched, and waited, and hoped--and believed!" she came to him slowly where he stood, his great frame trembling with his passion and the hurt she had given him, and laying her hand upon his arm, she said: "your faith was a blind one, ro. i was either a girl who--who deserved nothing of the world, or i was a wife. i had no husband, had i? then i must have been a girl who deserved nothing of the world, or of you. your faith was blind, ranulph, you see it was blind." "what i know is this," he repeated with dogged persistence--"what i know is this: that whatever was wrong, there was no wrong in you. my life a hundred times on that!" she smiled at him, the brightest smile that had been on her face these years past, and she answered softly: "'i did not think there was so great faith--no, not in israel!'" then the happiness passed from her lips to her eyes. "your faith has made me happy, ro--i am selfish, you see. your love in itself could not make me happy, for i have no right to listen, because--" she paused. it seemed too hard to say: the door of her heart enclosing her secret opened so slowly, so slowly. a struggle was going on in her. every feeling, every force of her nature was alive. once, twice, thrice she tried to speak and could not. at last with bursting heart and eyes swimming with tears she said solemnly: "i can never marry you, ranulph, and i have no right to listen to your words of love, because--because i am a wife." then she gave a great sigh of relief; like some penitent who has for a lifetime hidden a sin or a sorrow and suddenly finds the joy of a confessional which relieves the sick heart, takes away the hand of loneliness that clamps it, and gives it freedom again; lifting the poor slave from the rack of secrecy, the cruelest inquisition of life and time. she repeated the words once more, a little louder, a little clearer. she had vindicated herself to god, now she vindicated herself to man--though to but one. "i can never marry you; because i am a wife," she said again. there was a slight pause, and then the final word was said: "i am the wife of philip d'avranche." ranulph did not speak. he stood still and rigid, looking with eyes that scarcely saw. "i had not intended telling any one until the time should come"--once more her hand reached out and tremblingly stroked the head of the child --"but your faith has forced it from me. i couldn't let you go from me now, ignorant of the truth, you whose trust is beyond telling. ranulph, i want you to know that i am at least no worse than you thought me." the look in his face was one of triumph, mingled with despair, hatred, and purpose--hatred of philip d'avranche, and purpose concerning him. he gloried now in knowing that guida might take her place among the honest women of this world,--as the world terms honesty,--but he had received the death-blow to his every hope. he had lost her altogether, he who had watched and waited; who had served and followed, in season and out of season; who had been the faithful friend, keeping his eye fixed only upon her happiness; who had given all; who had poured out his heart like water, and his life like wine before her. at first he only grasped the fact that philip d'avranche was the husband of the woman he loved, and that she had been abandoned. then sudden remembrance stunned him: philip d'avranche, duc de bercy, had another wife. he remembered--it had been burned into his brain the day he saw it first in the gazette de jersey--that he had married the comtesse chantavoine, niece of the marquis grandjon-larisse, upon the very day, and but an hour before, the old duc de bercy suddenly died. it flashed across his mind now what he had felt then. he had always believed that philip had wronged guida; and long ago he would have gone in search of him--gone to try the strength of his arm against this cowardly marauder, as he held him--but his father's ill-health had kept him where he was, and philip was at sea upon the nation's business. so the years had gone on until now. his brain soon cleared. all that he had ever thought upon the matter now crystallised itself into the very truth of the affair. philip had married guida secretly; but his new future had opened up to him all at once, and he had married again--a crime, but a crime which in high places sometimes goes unpunished. how monstrous it was that such vile wickedness should be delivered against this woman before him, in whom beauty, goodness, power were commingled! she was the real princess philip d'avranche, and this child of hers--now he understood why she allowed guilbert to speak no patois. they scarcely knew how long they stood silent, she with her hand stroking the child's golden hair, he white and dazed, looking, looking at her and the child, as the thing resolved itself to him. at last, in a voice which neither he nor she could quite recognise as his own, he said: "of course you live now only for guilbert." how she thanked him in her heart for the things he had left unsaid, those things which clear-eyed and great-minded folk, high or humble, always understand. there was no selfish lamenting, no reproaches, none of the futile banalities of the lover who fails to see that it is no crime for a woman not to love him. the thing he had said was the thing she most cared to hear. "only for that, ranulph," she answered. "when will you claim the child's rights?" she shook her head sadly. "i do not know," she answered with hesitation. "i will tell you all about it." then she told him of the lost register of st. michael's, and about the reverend lorenzo dow, but she said nothing as to why she had kept silence. she felt that, man though he was, he might divine something of the truth. in any case he knew that philip had deserted her. after a moment he said: "i'll find mr. dow if he is alive, and the register too. then the boy shall have his rights." "no, ranulph," she answered firmly, "it shall be in my own time. i must keep the child with me. i know not when i shall speak; i am biding my day. once i thought i never should speak, but then i did not see all, did not wholly see my duty towards guilbert. it is so hard to find what is wise and just." "when the proofs are found your child shall have his rights," he said with grim insistence. "i would never let him go from me," she answered, and, leaning over, she impulsively clasped the little guilbert in her arms. "there'll be no need for guilbert to go from you," he rejoined, "for when your rights come to you, philip d'avranche will not be living." "will not be living!" she said in amazement. she did not understand. "i mean to kill him," he answered sternly. she started, and the light of anger leaped into her eyes. "you mean to kill philip d'avranche--you, maitre ranulph delagarde!" she exclaimed. "whom has he wronged? myself and my child only--his wife and his child. men have been killed for lesser wrongs, but the right to kill does not belong to you. you speak of killing philip d'avranche, and yet you dare to say you are my friend!" in that moment ranulph learned more than he had ever guessed of life's subtle distinctions and the workings of a woman's mind; and he knew that she was right. her father, her grandfather, might have killed philip d'avranche--any one but himself, he the man who had but now declared his love for her. clearly his selfishness had blinded him. right was on his side, but not the formal codes by which men live. he could not avenge guida's wrongs upon her husband, for all men knew that he himself had loved her for years. "forgive me," he said in a low tone. then a new thought came to him. "do you think your not speaking all these years was best for the child?" he asked. her lips trembled. "oh, that thought," she said, "that thought has made me unhappy so often! it comes to me at night as i lie sleepless, and i wonder if my child will grow up and turn against me one day. yet i did what i thought was right, ranulph, i did the only thing i could do. i would rather have died than--" she stopped short. no, not even to this man who knew all could she speak her whole mind; but sometimes the thought came to her with horrifying acuteness: was it possible that she ought to have sunk her own disillusions, misery, and contempt of philip d'avranche, for the child's sake? she shuddered even now as the reflection of that possibility came to her--to live with philip d'avranche! of late she had felt that a crisis was near. she had had premonitions that her fate, good or bad, was closing in upon her; that these days in this lonely spot with her child, with her love for it and its love for her, were numbered; that dreams must soon give way for action, and this devoted peace would be broken, she knew not how. stooping, she kissed the little fellow upon the forehead and the eyes, and his two hands came up and clasped both her cheeks. "tu m'aimes, maman?" the child asked. she had taught him the pretty question. "comme la vie, comme la vie!" she answered with a half sob, and caught up the little one to her bosom. now she looked towards the window. ranulph followed her look, and saw that the shades of night were falling. "i have far to walk," he said; "i must be going." as he held out his hand to guida the child leaned over and touched him on the shoulder. "what is your name, man?" he asked. he smiled, and, taking the warm little hand in his own, he said: "my name is ranulph, little gentleman. ranulph's my name, but you shall call me ro." "good-night, ro, man," the child answered with a mischievous smile. the scene brought up another such scene in guida's life so many years ago. instinctively she drew back with the child, a look of pain crossing her face. but ranulph did not see; he was going. at the doorway he turned and said: "you know you can trust me. good-bye." etext editor's bookmarks: being tired you can sleep, and in sleep you can forget cling to beliefs long after conviction has been shattered futility of goodness, the futility of all her voice had the steadiness of despair joy of a confessional which relieves the sick heart often, we would rather be hurt than hurt queer that things which hurt most can't be punished by law rack of secrecy, the cruelest inquisition of life sardonic pleasure in the miseries of the world sympathy, with curiousness in their eyes and as much inhumanity thanked him in her heart for the things he had left unsaid there is something humiliating in even an undeserved injury there was never a grey wind but there's a greyer uses up your misery and makes you tired (work) we care so little for real justice st. george's cross; or, england above all. _an episode of channel island history._ by h.g. keene guernsey: frederick clarke, states arcade. london: w.h. allen & co., 15. waterloo place. 1887. to the reader. the following little tale is neither pure fiction nor absolute historic truth; being, indeed, little more than an attempt to show a picture of channel island life as it was some two centuries ago. for the background we have been beholden to dr. s.e. hoskins, whose "_charles the second in the channel islands_" may be commended to all who may feel tempted to pursue the matter further. _august, 1887._ prologue. on a bright day in september of the year 1649 mr. william prynne, a suspended member of parliament, sat at the window of his lodging in the strand, london, where the thames at high water brimmed softly against the lawn, bearing barges, wherries, and other small craft, and gleaming very pleasantly in the slant brightness of an autumn noon. the unprosperous politician looked upon the fair scene with quiet cheer. he was a man of austere aspect, and looked farther advanced in middle life than was actually the case. for he was bearing the unjust weight of a double enmity; and though his after conduct showed that the world's injustice by no means threw him off his moral balance, yet it is impossible for a man to get into a position where every one but himself seems wrong and not acquire a certain sense of solitude, which, with a grave nature, will make him graver still. by the cavaliers he had been pilloried, mutilated, fined and imprisoned: expelled from the university where he was a master-of-arts, driven out of the inn-of-court in which he had been a bencher. by the roundheads, on the other hand, he had been visited with a later and more intolerable wrong, exclusion from that house of commons which was the only surviving seat of sovereignty. thus excommunicated on all sides, prynne still preserved his free and buoyant nature. he had the voice and impulsive manner of a young man; while there was a consistent moderation in his opinions which--however it might weigh against his success as a party-man--yet sprang from conviction, and was a guard against misanthropy. in his apparel he was plain but not slovenly. his eyes were eager; his lean face, branded with the first letters of the words "seditious libeller," was shaded by straight falls of lank hair, streaked here and there with grey, that was combed down on either side of his head to hide the loss of his ears. hearing a step without, prynne laid down the book he had been reading--a pamphlet by john milton--and advanced, with an air of polite reserve, to meet the entering visitor. this was a man more than ten years his junior, short of stature, with clear-cut features and thoughtful blue eyes contrasting with hair and moustache dark almost to blackness. his neatly brushed garments had a threadbare gloss, and his broad linen falling collar, though white and clean, was somewhat frayed. but his bearing was high-bred and distinguished, with an air of sober yet resolute earnestness. he wore no sword, and the hat which he carried in his hand was plain of shape and without adornment. "m. de maufant," said prynne, with the shy courtesy of a student, "will admire that i should seek speech of him after sundry passages that have been between us." "alack! mr. prynne," answered the stranger, with a slight foreign accent, "since your captivity in mont orgueil many things have befallen. 'tis not alone i, michael lempriere the exile, changed from the state of seigneur de maufant and chief magistrate of jersey to that of an outcast deriving a precarious subsistence from teaching french in your babylon here; but methinks you yourself have had a fall too, since the days you speak of: when you left jersey for london you came here in a sort of triumph. but by this time, methinks, you must be cured of your high hopes: i say it not for offence, but rather out of sorrow." "why no," answered the ex-member. "though i be no longer one of yonder assembly, i am still a denizen of london; and, let me tell you, a citizen of no mean city. and i bear my share in advancing the great cause on which so many of us are now engaged. have you not read what mr. milton hath said here as touching this?" and he took up the book which he had dropped in the window-seat "it is well said, as you will find." motioning lempriere to a chair, he took another and read as follows:-"'behold now this vast city, a city of refuge, the mansion-house of liberty, encompassed and surrounded with its protection ... pens and hands there, sitting by their studious lamps, musing, searching, revolving new notions and ideas, wherewith to present, as with their homage and their fealty, the approaching reformation.' as he saith a little further on, the fields of our harvest are white already; and it is your privilege and mine that live among this wise and active people, to see it coming, perhaps to put in a sickle. the pamphlet is becoming a force stronger than the sword; and those ironsides and woodenheads who turn us out of the chamber where our fellow citizens had seated us, may find an ill time before them when our work is over. but our work will be the work of freedom." what more would have been said, now that prynne was setting forth on his dearly-loved hobby, of which the name was _cedant arma_, is unknown; for the serving-man entered at this moment with a simple but plentiful repast carried on his head from the adjacent tavern; and even prynne's eagerness was dashed with caution enough to keep him to ordinary topics of talk so long as the man was in the room. but lempriere had seen and heard enough to put him in good humour with his host. the intimacy of the latter with the carterets, and a suspicion of general lukewarmness in the popular cause, had begotten old enmities, of which lempriere, in the long probation of failure, exile, and poverty, had already learned to be ashamed; and to see the man he had misjudged, looking him eagerly and earnestly in the face as he uttered the language of a genuine reformer, completed the jerseyman's conversion. after the servant had brought pipes and glasses and left the gentlemen to their tobacco and their wine, their talk grew more familiar as they looked at the flowing river, and the deserted towers of lambeth away on the other side. "the truth is," said prynne, "that i received from the cavaliers of your island kindnesses that i cannot forget; yet as touching the trial and execution of the late king, if i have gainsayed aught of the other side, yet i need not repeat that i have ever been a friend to liberty, as witness these indentures," and with a starched smile he pointed to the marks upon his face. "i know that you have reason to be angry with sir george cartwright...." "let us not talk of him," answered the other, with a flush on his swarthy cheek. "i lose all patience when i think of the many mischiefs entailed upon my country by the cruelty and greed of that house. when his late uncle, your protector, made sir george a substitute in the government of the island, he was but 23 years old: but old enough to be a serpent more subtle than any that went before; and see what he hath made of our little eden! he and his men the servants, not of the people, but of jermyn; prelacy and malignancy spread abroad. in the twelve parishes seven captains are carterets: and the knight himself, beside his deputyship, bailiff and receiver of the revenues, which he holds at an easy farm." "i conceive that your eves and adams should lose their virtue with such a tempter; yet, had you and dumaresq been less bent on sir philip's ruin, and on grasping his powers and profits, if you can pardon my plain speaking, i will be bold to say sir philip was no friend to tyranny, and would, under god's pleasure, have been still alive to forward the cause of reasonable freedom." "i will follow your good example and use equal plainness, mr. prynne. this wise man hath said that 'the simple believeth every word.' but if we should do likewise and believe every word that is told of you, we might say 'that mr. prynne was seduced by sir philip and lady carteret when he was their prisoner in mont orgueil.' and farther, it hath even been said that at that time you sent out a recantation to the king of that for which you suffered." "it skills not," answered the host, with evident self-control, "it skills not to rake into that which is passed." "neither did i seek to do so," rejoined the jerseyman, "i seek no offence, nor mean any. but, as touching the knight's spirit, and whether he sought the welfare of our island with singleness of heart, let me have leave to be of mine own mind. will you not let me take the affirmation from the doings of sir george, his nephew, and present successor? where is the place of profit that he hath not bestowed upon a kinsman or creature of his own?" "methinks," said prynne, shrewdly, "there be others than he who would gladly share those barley loaves and few small fishes." "that may be," said lempriere. "the labourer is worthy of his hire, to give you scripture for scripture. but what will you say to the piracies by which the traffic of the seas is intercepted, and mr. lieutenant daily enriched by plunder from english vessels? surely, even the charitable protecting of mr. prynne will hardly serve to cover such a multitude of sins!" the conference was once more growing warm, when fortunately, it was abridged by the sudden entrance of a man not unlike lempriere in general appearance, though taller and many years his junior. he wore a steel cap, a gorget, and a buff coat; and received a hearty welcome from the jerseyman, by whom he was presented to prynne. "captain le gallais is newly arrived from our island," said lempriere, "and i made bold to leave word that i was here, in case of his coming to my lodgings while i tarried with you. he brings me news of 'domus et placens uxor,'" added the speaker, taking with a sad smile the letter which le gallais handed him. the servant having brought a third long stalked glass and placed it on the table, left the room once more, as the visitor, unbuckling his long basket-hilted sword, threw himself into a high-backed chair, and stretched his limbs, as one who rests after long travel. "i am come post," said he, "from southampton. there is that to do in jersey which it imports the rulers of this land to know." "that may well be," observed lempriere, who shared his countryman's idea of the importance of their little island. "but how fares my rose? a wanderer may love his ithaca, but he loves his wife most. have i your leave, mr. prynne, to examine this missive?" prynne bowed, and lempriere cut open his letter. "penelope maketh such cheer as she may," he added, after glancing at the contents: "but i see nothing of your mighty news, alain." "the letter was written before i learned the same. the return of ulysses did not then seem so far as it does now." "leave riddling, alain, and let us know the worst." "the worst is, charles stuart is in s. helier, with a large power, warmly received by sir george, and holding the island as a tool of jermyn and the queen, if not a pensioner of france. i saw his barge row into the harbour at high tide, followed by others laden with silken courtiers and musicians; horse-boats and cook-boats swelled the train; the great guns of the castle fired salvoes, and the militia stood to their arms upon the quay, with drums beating, fifes squeaking, and our own company from saint saviour's ranked among the rest, green leaves in their hats and round the poles of their colours." lempriere leant his head on his hand with a discomfited and despondent gesture. prynne addressed him kindly:-"have a little patience, h. de maufant," said he. "the sun shines in heaven though earth's clouds hide his face." "lukewarm reuben!" cried the other, impatiently. "what comfort can i have from such as thou? while we talk my country is indeed undone: my wife perhaps a wanderer, and my lands and house given over to the enemy." "nay, but it need not be so," said prynne. "the rump that ruleth here, even were it a complete parliament, cannot be an idol to you and yours. i have read your island laws. those that say that the parliament hath jurisdiction there must, sure, be strangely ignorant. and so witnesseth lord coke, no slave of the prerogative. your islands are the ancient patrimony of the crown: what hinders you from casting in your lot with charles? for my part, i would willingly compound with him. let him rule as he pleases there, provided he make not slaves of us." "there spoke the self-loving englishman," cried le gallais, whom respect for his seniors had hitherto kept silent. "if you speak of hindering, what is to hinder sir george, now that he hath the king for backer, from confiscating all our remaining lands and applying the produce to fitting out a fleet which will ruin the trade of all england? it is a question for you also, you perceive." "_proximus ucalegon_," said lempriere, whom nothing could long restrain from airing his classical knowledge. "but leave me to speak to mr. prynne in terms that will not offend, and that he cannot fail to understand. harkye, mr. prynne," he said, turning to his host and resuming use of the english language in lieu of the patois in which he had addressed his countryman. "you love the commonwealth, i know; your many sufferings in that behalf show you a true friend to the cause of english liberty. but to me it appears that this cause cannot be fitly separated from that of your small satellite yonder." "i do not seek to deny it," answered prynne. "now this good fellow," pursued lempriere, laying his hand on his young friend's shoulder, "(and let his zeal make amends for his blunt manner) hath brought tidings, from which it appears that our affairs are in such a state as calls for your interposition. and i learn moreover from this letter that henry dumaresq is stirring, and the greed and grasping of the carterets have made them many ill-wishers. nevertheless, pierre benoist hath been taken, and under torture may readily betray our plans. on the other hand, he that is called king there, the young charles stuart, is under the regimen of his mother, who is the tool of france. between them all jersey may be lost to the commonwealth before a blow be stricken." "nay," cried prynne, interrupting, "i would not have you say so. we english are neither braggarts nor cowards. whitelocke knoweth the mind of mazarin; and i pray you note that cromwell, though as a man of state i do not uphold him, is a soldier whose zeal never sleeps, and who cares more for the welfare of england and such as depend upon her than any stuart will ever do, or undo. i sent for you, indeed, on this very behalf; not minded to show you all the springs of politics, yet to give you a word of comfort and to ask of you a word of friendliness in return, yea, word for word, an you will." the politician's keen eye softened as he looked at the forlorn exile. the latter turned abruptly, as if to reveal no corresponding emotion: then, looking straight before him, said in low tones:-"for comfort, god knows whether or no it be needed. my place and power are lost--such as they were--a price is set upon my head by those who slew maximilian messervy. my wife--who is to me like the apple of mine eye--is alone, battling with hostile authority, and with tenants too ready to profit by her helpless condition. i am as one encompassed by quicksands, and nigh to be swallowed up. i am tempted to say with david, 'vain is the help of man.' do you show me a bridge of escape?" he asked, turning to prynne, "what is your meaning? i pray you speak it out." "you cannot," said his host, "have forgotten serjeant-major lydcott of this army; and how with a slender company he landed on your island six years ago. it was about the end of august, 1643, i remember well, for sir philip had been dead bare three days and indeed was not yet buried: and the castles of jersey still held out for the cartwrights. i said then that, had lydcott but taken three hundred of our sober, god fearing soldiers, he would have established himself as master of the island on behalf of the commonwealth. george cartwright had never come over from s. maloes; the pirates of s. aubin would have been confounded and brought to nought; sir peter osborne had never held castle cornet in guernsey (to the shame and sorrow of the well-affected in that island), had they but been backed and aided from jersey. even as things were, and with no more help but what he got from you--i say it not to offend you--how much did not lydcott do? three days after his landing he called together the states and opened before them his commission from the earl of warwick, warden of the isles and lord high admiral of england. you were present and presiding, as you must needs remember, together with all but three jurats, all the constables save one, and nearly half the rectors. without a dissentient voice you administered the oath of lieutenant-governor to lydcott, yourself standing forth as bailiff and sworn the first. what hindered you then from holding fast? nothing but want of a backbone of strength. the militia, whom you now hold malignant, swore allegiance to a man, save and except one colonel who was broke then and there. you may say george cartwright drove you out; but what did he do that could justify your flight? i must be plain with you: with all outward and visible signs of power you gave way before three open boats and a mouldy ruin." "we gave way," said lempriere with an indignant flush, "because we were forsook by them on whom we leaned." "i know it," pursued prynne, "i say it not to blame you, but to blame the lukewarm weakness of those who held authority there on the part of the commonwealth: for had lydcott been ever so able and willing he lacked support from hence. we had our hands full of graver business. only i neither desire nor expect such things should be done a second time. there be those now in power that will take better order. the future of your islands, the ties that bind them to us, were not known six years ago; and our friends--as i have already said--had other matters, more pressing, to attend to. but now is not then. now, that a violent policy that i cannot altogether undertake to defend hath shorn the strength of tyranny, and that fair deceiver the late king--whom none could safely trust or utterly despise--is by that blow taken out of our path, we are free to set matters straight around us. it is therefore not to be endured that your small wasps' nest yonder should continue to infest our ambient ocean with her petty and poisonous alarms. this is the word i have to give thee--friendly meant, though thou mayest have been hitherto no friend to me. jersey will be brought under the power of the commonwealth, and you will be among the instruments of its reduction. i seek a word from you in return for mine." "sir," said the bewildered exile, "you have spoken hardly, but, i believe, with a meaning kinder than seemed: a good intent makes amends for a harsh manner, and a bitter drink may strengthen the heart, as has this day been done to mine by the mingled counsel and reproof that have been poured out for me. i seek not to pry into your affairs of state, and what i have heard le gallais hath heard also. i therefore make no scrutiny as touching the means to be employed; the end we will take thankfully according as promised. if the parliament and the lord general be so minded, i make no doubt but we shall return to our home. but as regards the word you seek from me, i would fain know to what it shall relate. you seek, i presume, to make conditions with me: let me know, in the hearing of my friend, what they be. that we of the island shall be true and faithful servants to the commonwealth of england, not seeking to intermeddle in matters that may be beyond our concernment, i would gladly undertake for myself and for all with whom my wishes may have weight: but methinks it shall hardly need. and perchance your honour may intend to glance at some more private matter?" "i do so," answered the politician. "i have never hidden from you the love that i bore for good sir philip living, nor how dear i hold his memory now that he is dead. i would not that any who were of his party should suffer damage when the cause shall prosper in the island. you have heard of cromwell's present doings in ireland: all the world knows what things are being wrought in that unhappy country, where the lord ormonde hath been another cartwright and hath met with an overthrow the like of which i pretell for his jersey antitype. cartwright is as unbending and will hold out to the last. "mont orgueil, indeed, can make no opposition to a regular siege: we are not now in the days of du guesclin. but it may be otherwise with elizabeth castle. like her whose name she bears that fortress is a virgin, and not without a struggle will she yield. cromwell loves not such defences. let us be there when the hour comes, and let us combine to keep the garrison from perishing by the swords of our friends." "gladly will i do my best in aid of mercy," answered lempriere, looking much relieved by the nature of the request. "if that be all that your honour hath to ask, i can have no hesitancy in giving a hearty and honest pledge in such behalf. jersey is no corsica; and we love not revenge, do we, alain?" alain readily endorsing his chief's assertion, prynne continued:-"it is not all. i have to pray you for the lieutenant himself; misguided and grasping as you deem him, he is of my deceased friend's name and blood." "alack, mr. prynne!" answered lempriere, "have you quite forgotten what i owe to that blood and name? and i speak not in this for myself only. there are the spirits of the bandinels before me; unhappy victims of george carteret's revenge. there is the shade of my friend maximilian messervy, judged by an unlawful and corrupt court, executed under warrant of one who had no warrant for himself." in his excitement lempriere had forgotten to quote latin; he began to pace the floor of the room. prynne also rose and leaned by the window, looking out at the shrubs standing dark and blotted against the evening light that lay on the smooth water. "take not your example," he said; "from those whose deeds you abhor, neither make your enemies your pattern. recollect who it is that hath said, 'vengeance is mine:' and in the hour of your triumph remember to spare. come, give me your word, willingly. i am doing much for you, more than you are aware. i call to mind some solemn words that i have heard mr. milton quote:- "the quality of mercy is not strained, it droppeth as the gentle dew from heaven upon the place beneath: it is twice blessed, it blesseth him that gives and him that takes." let your promise to bless come as freely as the dews that are falling out there on my little grass-plot. peace is upon the world--let peace be in our hearts also!" the vehement controversial voice changed and became musical as it uttered the words. the fervour of an unwonted mood had brought something of a mist into the speaker's eye; persuasion hung upon his gestures, and the voice of private rancour sank before the pleading of his lips. as the jerseyman remained silent, prynne went to the table and filled the glasses from the flagon of rhenish wine that stood there. "we presbyterians," he said, "are not given to the drinking of toasts. but 'tis no common occasion. england's wars are over, may there be peace upon israel. let us drink one glass together, and let us join in the blessing of old, invoking it on our land:--'peace be within thy walls and prosperity within thy palaces: for my brethren and companions' sake!'" the guests followed their host's example, and seemed to share his mood. then, setting down their empty glasses, the three men parted in more loving-kindness, it might well be, than what had marked some early stages of their conversation. prynne, when left alone, called for candles and sat down to his writing-table. the jerseymen walked together towards temple bar. "knowest thou, _mon cher_," said the ex-bailiff in the island language, "a heartier friend than one of these english that seem so cold?" "but tell me, i pray thee, wherefore they call the present master of our island by an english name? for surely yonder gentleman said 'cartwright,' which is a name not of jersey but of england." "they are stupid, alain, that is all; and they think to weigh the world in their own scales. but whether we call him cartwright or carteret, it is equally hard to pardon his voracity. he is like time--_edax rerum._ nevertheless, i feel as if it was not only the sight of you and news from home that had made me of such good cheer to-night: but that i owe something of it to mons. prynne; aye! thanks to his schooling and a readiness to perform what he has made me promise, should carteret ever stand at my disposal. the time may be near or it may be far; but i feel that it must come." "and then," asked alain shyly, "shall not i too have something to expect from thee: when thou art bailiff again, and a man high in power, will thou still be willing to give me thy sister-in-law?" "parbleu!" cried lempriere, "if maids could be given like passports. but marguerite will have her way; it is for thee, _coquin_, to make her way thine." thus, jointly labouring at airy castles, the pair of islanders pricked their steps through the dirty and dimly-lighted streets till they reached a squalid row of houses on tower hill, where was situated the only lodging within the present means of the seigneur of maufant. "to-night thou must share my chamber, _telle quelle_," he said. "'tis a poor one, as thou mayest suppose. _infelix, habitum temporis hujus habe?_" "it is all one to me," said alain, lightly; "whether here or at maufant thou art always good." as they neared the door a voice came to them from the shadow of a projecting oriel:-"have a care, jerseymen! you are betrayed." they ran to the shaded corner; but the moon was young and low and gave but little light in the narrow street. a figure, seemingly that of a tall man, was seen to glide away into another street, but they failed to recognise it or trace its departing movements. silently, and with downcast looks they sought the entry of lempriere's lodging, the door of which he opened with a key that he carried in his pocket. striking a light from flint and steel on the hall table, lempriere kindled a hand-lamp, and led the way into a small chamber on the ground floor, where they wrapped themselves in their cloaks and lay down on a pallet in the corner. the younger man, fatigued with travel, was soon asleep; lempriere, with more to think of, passed great part of the night in wakeful anxiety. before he finally sank to slumber he had resolved to send alain back at once to jersey. act i. the king. in 1649, when charles ii. was uncertain as to what steps he should take on the death of his father, it was considered that the best and safest place for his temporary residence was the castle at s. helier, in jersey, known by the name of queen elizabeth, where he had already lived for a short time on an earlier occasion. founded by order of the sovereign whose name it bore, it stands on a rocky islet, once a promontory of the mainland, but long since insulated by every high tide. at low water it communicated with the town by a natural causeway of shingly rock called "the bridge," commanded by its own guns. on the western curve of the bay, nearly two miles off as the bird flies, was the small town of s. aubin, guarded by a smaller fortress. the entire bay was protected, by the batteries of these two places, against the entrance of hostile shipping. circumstances, not now entirely traceable but connected probably with defensive considerations, had taken its ancient preponderance from gorey, on the eastern coast, which had once been the seat of administration; and thus commenced the importance of s. helier, though in nothing like the present activity of its quays and wharves, or the throng of its streets and markets. above the head of the "bridge," indeed, the view from the north face of the castle met with no buildings till it struck upon the town church, an ancient but plain structure of the fourteenth century, whose square central tower, although by no means of lofty elevation, formed a landmark for mariners out at sea by reason of a beacon that was always kept burning there by night. at the foot of this tower nestled a cemetery containing the tombs of "the rude forefathers" of what had been, till lately, indeed little more than a hamlet. on the southern aspect of this, facing the castle and the sea, the enclosure was marked by a strong granite breastwork armed with cannons mounted _en barbette_. these pieces were pointed, for the most part, on the bridge, or causeway leading to the castle, into which they were capable of sending salvos of round-shot, as in fact they had often done a few years before. the rest of the cemetery was strongly walled, though without guns. to the north of the church ran narrow streets, sloping gently upward from the seaside. the houses of these streets were built of the local granite, hewn and hammered flat and without projection or decoration, and with no other relief but what was afforded by small rectangular lattice-windows. they were usually of two storeys, crowned by high-pitched thatched roofs, with here and there a tiny dormer window. some were shops or taverns, among which were interspersed the residences of the burgesses and the town houses of the rural gentry. fronted by miry roadway, or at best an occasional strip of rough boulder pavement, over which wheeled carriages could rarely pass, these lines of houses had no form or comeliness, save what might be due to an occasional bit of small flower-garden before the few that were large and inhabited by persons in comparatively easy circumstances. farther back the ground rose more rapidly and showed some scattered suburban houses. the "town hill" to the east, the "gallows hill" to the west, completed the amphitheatre. up the main hollow ran a road leading due north to the manor and church of trinity parish in the interior of the island, and terminating on the north coast in boulay bay, a fine natural harbour, which was the nearest point of embarkation for england. the whole island, scarcely less than the town, bore an appearance of defence, almost of inaccessibility; the manors, farm houses, and even many of the fields, being surrounded by granite walls, and capable of arresting the progress of an invader, unless in great force. each of the twelve parish churches contained the arsenal of the local militia; and all things betokened a hardy population, ready to do battle against all intruders. the titular governor, lord jermyn, was an absentee, following the fortunes of the widowed queen, henrietta maria, in france. the actual administration, both civil and military, was in the hands of a naval officer of experience, sir george carteret, or de carteret, cousin and brother-in-law to the seigneur of s. owen, a large manor on the western side of the island. this family, distinguished in island history ever since it abandoned its fief of carteret on the coast of normandy to follow the fortunes of john lackland, when the duchy was confiscated by philip augustus, was by far the most powerful in the island. its only possible rival, the house of lempriere, of maufant, had espoused warmly the cause of the parliament, and had consequently met with reverses when the carterets, who were royalist, effected the revolution mentioned in our prologue. it only remains to be added that the people at large were not at all warmly attached to either of the parties to the civil war. the language of the majority was an old form of french, now reduced to the condition of a patois; the more educated classes studied the laws and language of france. the proceedings of the courts and the services of the church were conducted in modern french, and the sympathies of the community were divided between a mundane attachment to england, and a religious leaning to the creed of the huguenots, of whom a great number had sought refuge on their shores. hence the jersey folks were indifferently submissive to royalty, the only form of english government of which, till these days, they had heard; but they by no means shared the high-church fervour which had animated the late unfortunate king. their ultimate motive, as is common to human nature, was for their own interests; and although the influence of the carterets had kept them, for the most part, nominal followers of the cause of royalty, men like michael lempriere and prynne had good reason for believing that they would, in the long run, favour those who seemed the best friends to jersey. let them not be blamed for this. their love for england was very much founded upon fear of france. by observing the attitude of the scottish borderers of a slightly earlier period, an englishman of the seventeenth century could imagine the attitude of the jersey mind towards the "normans," by which name they were accustomed to designate their feudal and aggressive catholic neighbours the lords and ministers of the french kingdom. even as the grahams and scotts of tweedside stood at arms against each other on either bank of the dividing stream, so did the de gruchys and malets, the le feuvres and de quettevilles, on either side the channel. the danger that was nearest was the most formidable; and the channel islanders were ready to side with england much as the saxon scots of the lothians came to make common cause with the celts of the highlands. these explanations may appear tedious: but the reader is implored to pardon them; for without such he could not realise the passions which are exemplified in this little story. long exposed to invasion, the jerseymen of the middle ages had handed down to their descendants an abhorrence of france which was fomented by the stories of persecution brought to them by huguenot refugees; and which, indeed, has hardly yet completely died out among the rural population. thus sentiment and interest kept the islanders attached to england by a two-fold cord; careless whether their immediate leaders were cavaliers, as in jersey, or parliamentarians, as in the neighbouring island of guernsey, where the royal governor was beleaguered in castle cornet. for reasons arising out of this state of things, carteret did not leave the protection of the king to the unaided loyalty of the local militia. cooped up in the narrow limits of the castle rock were no less than three hundred englishmen and women attached to the court, and, in addition, a strong force of irish and cornish soldiers who had been brought over by charles on his former visit, as prince of wales, after the battle of naseby. his sacred majesty--_de jure_ of england, scotland, and ireland, king, to say nothing of france, whose lilies were blazoned on his scutcheon--was _de facto_ monarch of this little island plot of 45 square miles; and his state was at least equal to his temporary sway. the accommodation of the castle was, in truth, but small; but it was the best that the occasion afforded; the royal palace consisting of a suite of small apartments vacated for the king's convenience by the lieutenant-governor, sir g. carteret, who had removed to the lower ward. s. aubin, on the other horn of the bay, was the seat of the naval power; here lived the families of the officers of the corsair-squadron then constituting the royal navy. the rest of the king's following was billetted on farm-houses in the parishes nearest to the town. yet, as a warning that all was not their own, four frigates and two line-of-battle ships, with a commission from the rebel government of london, and flying the broad pennant of admiral batten, cruised between jersey and guernsey, never far from sight, although giving for the most part a wide berth to both the island castles, whose gunners watched them night and day. such was the position of affairs on a sunday towards the end of september, a few days later than the events related in the prologue. the morning had been wet and windy, and the sacredness of the day had joined to keep the men of those simple times from all activity save that connected with the services of religion. but, in spite of the weather, it had been judged wise and proper that charles should show himself at church on this, the first sunday of his kingship in jersey: and he accordingly attended worship at the town church of s. helier's. the tide was low, and the royal cortã¨ge, muffled in their cloaks, rode or walked slowly along the causeway, and up the _glacis_ that led to the entrance. the rector was absent, his opinions being displeasing to the autocratic carteret; but the rev. mr. la cloche, rector of s. owen (the carteret parish) was in charge; he was the lieutenant-governor's private chaplain; and under strict orders had made splendid preparation for the illustrious congregation. the old temple had been swept and garnished. laurel boughs and the beautiful flowers and fruits of the season hung from every arch and decorated every pillar. the aisles were covered with a thick natural carpet of fragrant rushes; before the pulpit were chairs for the king and his brother the duke of york, and the space they stood on was tapestried with glowing colours. cushioned tables supported the gilded bibles and prayer-books for the royal worshippers, who arrived precisely at eleven followed by their numerous train. throwing off his wringing roquelaure charles entered, plumed hat in hand, a young man of middle stature, erect and well-knit for his years--which were but nineteen--and with a countenance which, though even then wanting in flesh and bloom, was not unpleasing: framed in natural curls, and showing (to sympathetic observers) a noble and pleasing dignity often, it must be avowed, contrasting strongly with the mingled frivolity and cynicism that marked his words. being in mourning for the event of january he was clothed in purple velvet without lace or embroidery. over his doublet hung a short cloak with a star on the left breast, under which was a silk scarf, cloak and scarf being all of purple. the famous ribbon of the garter round his left knee was the only bit of other colour visible. james, a few years younger, was similarly attired. besides the two princes the only other knight of the garter was the earl of southampton. the rest of the lords and gentlemen in waiting were also in court-mourning, and all without the smallest decoration. after the conclusion of the service the clergyman ascended the pulpit in his black gown. he took his text from the second book of chronicles, c. 35, the end of the 24th verse:--"and all judah and jerusalem mourned for josiah." the turn of mr. la cloche's discourse may be in great measure anticipated. setting forth the heinousness of rebellion and regicide, he dwelt upon the virtues of the royal martyr, his courage, his patience, his devotion to the church. as was but natural in the circumstances, there followed an application to local politics. they were there, he informed his hearers (as the old lattices, shaken by the gale, rattled their accompaniment to his monotone) in the character of englishmen; but he had to notice that to the existing rulers of england they owed no obedience. the so-called parliament which had judged and murdered the late lamented monarch, and which now claimed the right of ruling in his stead, was no divinely appointed head of affairs, not even representative of one estate of the realm. where were the peers, the lords temporal who had ever formed part of the government of england, the lords spiritual who represented the church of christ? the house of lords was now represented to them, there in the presence of the honourable sir george carteret, knight and baronet, whom that high chamber had set and appointed to bear rule in that island. still more had they before them their sovereign, the anointed of the lord, without whose assent all acts of state must ever be futile and rebellious. yes, he was there, that sacred head, covered and guarded by the loyal hearts and arms of one--only one--of his norman isles. as the sermon came to an end the storm without showed signs of abatement; and by the time the blessing had been pronounced and the king and prince had mounted their richly caparisoned horses, the wind had lulled and the september sun gleamed brightly out upon the attentive and orderly crowd. on returning to the castle charles sate down to dinner, and a select portion of the more loyal jersey society was admitted into the hall to see the king at table. only two places were set; and after a latin grace had been pronounced by the court-chaplain, the dishes were taken, one by one, to the king and his brother, and whatever meats were approved were taken to the side-board and carved. the royal youths had stood with uncovered heads while grace was being said; but they replaced their hats when they sate down, and wore them throughout dinner. after they had dined the page-in-waiting, a tall and handsome youth, richly attired, brought each of them a ewer and basin of parcel-gilt silver, with a fringed damask napkin; and after they had washed their hands a butler served them with spanish and gascon wines. dessert having been placed upon the table and tasted, the princes withdrew; and then the hungry courtiers sate down to finish the repast. retired to his private sitting-room, charles lay back on a window-seat, tooth-pick in hand, and looked out indolently on the sea. the waves scintillated and broke into white foam, among the brown rocks, which disappeared gradually under the rising tide; and the wings of glancing gulls shone out against a rain-cloud which was bearing off the recent storm. below the dark pall the sky of the horizon glowed bright and clear as jade over the deepening line of the distant waters. at the king's feet sat the page who had served the princes at dinner, a bright rakish-looking young fellow named thomas elliot; apparently absorbed in the preparation of fishing-tackle, he was heedfully watching the face of his royal master out of the corner of his dare-devil eyes. "where is james, tom?" asked presently the king. "gone to feed the hawks, sir." "one's own flesh-and-blood is poor company, he finds. by the lord, tom, this is no life for a christian, be he man or boy. to be lunged round my good mother at the length of her apron-string seemed but dull work, and making love to the grande mademoiselle was indifferent pastime. but, odsfish, i would willingly be back there. in this god-forgotten corner you cannot see a petticoat on any terms, save the farthingale of dame carteret or her ancient housekeeper, as they cross the courtyard to give corn to the pigeons. james and i went out fishing yesterday, as far as s. owen's pond; but no sport had we there but the chance of a broken head from a puritan farmer." "why, what a plague did they want by laying hands on our anointed pate?" "ah! look you," said charles, in his languid drawl, "we did but beg a cup of cider from his daughter. james hath a long face and a dull tongue for a boy of his age; but i warrant i spoke the wench fair for my part; and in french that had passed muster at versailles. but 'tis a perverse and stiff-necked generation. the wench screamed in some language not understandable by us--carribee it may be--but faith there was no difficulty about the farmer's meaning: he conjugated his fists, but we declined the encounter; and so we were quit as to grammar." the manner of the speaker was in such dry and droll contrast with his matter that elliot had no difficulty in according the sympathetic smile which is the tribute of the jovial and manly sycophant to a superior he wishes to please. "and this is then, the escapade for which the _gros bonnets_ down there have determined that you are not to stir out of this charming retreat without a guard, or suffer your sacred person to meet the air of the island without the hedge of an escort. but i have a plan to defeat them...." whatever projects the young men might be disposed to form for the purpose of eluding the prudent precautions of their seniors were for the moment cut short by a knocking at the door, which made them start aside like the disturbed conspirators that they were. "quick! vanish," muttered the king sharply; "behind the bureau there. if the comer be nicholas let him not see thee here. he bears thee no good will." as elliot hurriedly obeyed, the door slowly opened, giving entrance to the rector of s. owen. the worthy clergyman still wore the gown and bands in which he had preached in the forenoon, and carried in his hand the four-cornered but boardless college-cap which formed part of the clerical costume of those days. bestowing upon the youthful king a look whose awestruck humility was at curious variance with the respective ages and appearance of the two, and making an awkward obeisance, mr. la cloche spoke:-"i crave your pardon, sir. receiving no reply to my knock i presumed to enter, deeming mine errand an excuse." charles pointed to a seat and drew himself up with dignity:-"it needs no further excuse, reverend sir, say on, and fear nothing." la cloche seated himself on the corner of the chair. "it is my humble duty to warn your majesty that jersey is no suitable place for your residence," he said. "we are very much of your mind," answered charles, "but how made you the mighty discovery?" "i have been dining," answered the clergyman, "in company with the honourable sir edward nicholas, knight, secretary of state to your majesty. certain of your majesty's affectionate servants and well-wishers were of the party, as also the lieutenant-governor, who was the host. the discourse was grave; and albeit without permission of the gentlemen--yet, in virtue of mine office, i hope i but anticipate their humble duty to your majesty, if i take upon myself to lay their thoughts before you." "and for your own part, sir, as a jerseyman having, both by religion and as a member of the states, the means of knowing what the people think, you would fain join your own private word to those who are refusing an asylum to charles stuart in the dominions of his fathers. you had better let them speak for themselves." the clergyman shuffled in his uneasy seat. the perspicacity of the young man--it is a part of a prince's stock-in-trade--had taken him by surprise. "i am an old man," he faltered, "unversed in affairs of state. if it be true, however, that the lord jermyn...." "our mother's trusted councillor, mr. rector! what of my lord jermyn? thou hast not said enough--or, by god! thou hast said too much." the chaplain's island temper hardened under menace, even from the lord's anointed. what he felt he did not indeed care to lay bare: yet the upshot he would tell. the king's recent exploit in the parish of which he was rector had come to his ears, garnished and exaggerated, perhaps; and he was determined to get rid of such visitors if he could. the news from france was an occasion, and he gladly used it. lord jermyn, it seemed, had been talking openly--and not for the first time--of selling the channel islands to france; and his connection with the queen made men suspect that he had not entertained such a design without high sanction. on the other hand the rector knew that carteret would sooner cede the island over which he was set to cromwell than see it occupied by the french. the king would be in obvious danger, and he had determined, under that excuse, to endeavour to dispose the king's mind towards a removal which he himself, on other grounds, considered highly desirable. charles listened to all the clergyman had to say, with impatience thinly veiled by good breeding. when the speaker came to a pause, the king said, with a kinder manner, "thou hast done well, and hast given no just cause of offence to anyone. mr. secretary is an approved friend: but i need not remind your reverence of the prayer of the psalmist: 'let not his precious balms break mine head!'" the king's manner indicated that the conference was at an end. he wished to get rid of the rector, not only because the good man was "boring" him, as would be said now-a-days, but because he had but little trust in tom elliot's discretion, and thought that at any moment the page might be led to break forth from what must needs be an irksome confinement. moreover, the king knew that, sooner or later, he would have to undergo a more serious lecture from some of his councillors, and it was an object with him to make some inquiries in confidential quarters and devise a course of speech if not of action. but the worthy rector was, as he said, unversed in the ways of the great; and the young king's affable manner had drawn him into forgetfulness of any little lessons of etiquette that he might have ever learned. instead of departing on the king's hint, he let his tongue wag afresh. "alack, sir! may your majesty's prayers be heard. and may what i have done breed myself no harm! for what saith the wise man? 'burden not thyself above thy power while thou livest, and have no fellowship with one that is mightier than thyself: for how agree the kettle and earthen pot together?'" "it was well said of the wise man," observed the king demurely. "and your reverence will do well to consider the words that follow, if my memory do not deceive me;--'if thou be invited of a great man, _withdraw thyself_!'" the underlined words, being pronounced with a voice changed to a sharp and sudden tone from the solemn snuffle into which the king had slid in first quoting _ecclesiasticus_, were too much for elliot, who broke into an irrepressible giggle behind the bureau. mr. la cloche started at the sound; then, recollecting himself, retired with a bow into which he threw a look of surprise not unmixed with silent reproach. still laughing, the page emerged from his ambush, knocking the dust from his doublet with his hand, and eyeing the door as it closed after the retreating rector. "i'll wager he thinks thou wert a wench, tom," cried charles; "but tell me, how much of the worthy parson's discourse didst thou hear?" "as much as you desire, sir, and no more," was the discreet reply. "but it is true that one is come from france who knows lord jermyn." "jermyn," said the king, half soliloquising, "is a son of a----; and i would as lief run him through the body as i would open an oyster. but that is neither here nor there; such pleasures are not for kings." he sate thinking for a few minutes, and then, looking up, added, "go, tom, and tell nicholas and the rest that i would see them here." the page departed, presently returning to introduce four gentlemen, after which, he again left the room and shut the door, which it would be his office to keep against all intrusion while the conference lasted. one of the visitors appeared to take precedence; a tall, high-featured man, with a stoop and a receding chin. this was lord hopton, one of the most respectable of charles's followers; an honourable, stupid, middle-aged nobleman, who could never marshal his own thoughts and who, necessarily, spoke without persuading others. the other englishmen were nicholas, the secretary of state, and the old lord cottington. the fourth gentleman was sir george carteret, the lieutenant-governor, a bluff sea-faring man, little used to obey, yet anxious, in that presence, to be deferential; with an unmistakable pugnacity varnished over with a gloss of _ruse_. there being but one arm-chair in the room charles took his seat upon it, and awaited the advice of his friends who perforce remained standing. "i have sent for you, my lords and gentlemen, to confer on the matter brought me by mr. la cloche, the rector of st. owen, and chaplain to sir george carteret." hopton opened the conference, speaking in a dull, precise manner, from the lips only, hardly opening his teeth:-"may it please you sir, mr. la cloche hath reported to me, as i met him returning from your presence, that while he was imparting to your highness--i may say, your majesty--a matter of great moment, there was one hid in the room that played the eavesdropper. before proceeding farther i would humbly ask...." "hold there, my lord," broke in charles. "remember, i pray you, that--howbeit our present power, by the malice of our enemies, be brought to a narrow pass, we are still, by the grace of god your king, of full age, moreover, and no longer to be schooled. as touching what anyone may have heard here, by our consent, we need answer to no man; neither to mr. la cloche nor to your lordship. there is, however, no one but ourselves in this room, as you may clearly see. as to the matter of the priest's discourse, we opine that it is already known to you. it is of that matter that we now seek to know your minds." the words were not ungracefully uttered; but hopton found no immediate answer. he only knit his narrow brow and held his peace. carteret, however, stepped briskly forward; and would perhaps have committed some indiscretion had not nicholas plucked him by the cloak. "by your leave, mr. lieutenant," said the jovial lawyer, "i would say an humble word to his majesty, with the freedom of an ancient servant." his round face and merry eye were rendered serious by the resolution of a full-lipped yet firm mouth. "sir!" said he, turning to the young king with a look in which the _bonhomie_ of an indulgent mentor was blended with genuine respect, "it will, no doubt, seem to your majesty both meet and proper that we should not leave a meddlesome parson to let you know that our faithful hearts have been sorely exercised by that which is newly come to us out of france. not to stay on sundry general advertisements and rumours that have reached us--and which seemed to glance at a very exalted personage--i mean, more particularly, what we have received this morning from a very discreet and knowing gentleman (now residing at paris) of what he hath learned from persons of honour conversant in the secrets of the court there." "if it be her majesty the queen that you fear to name, mr. secretary," interrupted the king, "it is but vain to fence. do your duty, as you have ever done." "with your majesty's leave, i will name no one, save it be one mr. cooly, secretary to the lord jermyn, whom your majesty, doubtless, graciously recollects. our informant was plainly asked by this gentleman, how the islanders would take it if there should be an overture of giving them up to the french." "this is but talk," observed the king. "nay sir, there is yet more. this letter, which is come to one of us in cypher, goes on to tell that it hath been heard, from a very good source, that the chief mover herein is to be made duke and peer of france, and receive 200,000 pistoles, for which he is to deliver up not jersey only but guernsey, aurigny, and serk. nay, further, his eminence cardinal mazarine hath taken up ships for the transport of 2,000 french soldiers, nominally for the service of your majesty, actually for the service whereof we are now speaking." "let them come," said charles. "we will put ourself at their head and fall upon guernsey, that nest of roundheads where osborne and honest baldwin wake have borne so long the brunt of insult and privation." "under your favour, sir," broke in carteret, "you would be bubbled. i have seen and spoke with a known creature of my lord jermyn's; and i know well that the design of the french is--so to speak--to clap your majesty under the hatches, and to steer the vessel on their own account. mr. la cloche shall answer for this," he added in a lower tone. "by your leave again, sir george," put in the beaming secretary, "we lawyers are to speak by our calling. it is not indeed, sir, that my lord jermyn hath made direct overtures to us. and 'tis to be thought that in this last respect the messenger spoke but according to his own understanding." "i would cut every throat in the island," cried carteret, with savage interruption.... "sir george cartwright's zeal hath eaten him up," said nicholas with a twinkle of his merry eye. "let it suffice that the concurrent information of divers persons (and they strangers to one another), together with the lord jermyn's total neglect of the island in regard of the provisions that he hath not sent as promised nor repaid sums of money lent to your service by the people, have led us to sign a paper of association for which we shall crave your gracious approval. we doubt not you will agree with us that the delivery of the islands to the french is not consistent with the duty and fidelity of englishmen, and would be an irreparable loss to the nation besides being an indelible dishonour to the crown." as charles took the paper handed him for perusal by nicholas, a flush arose upon his swarthy countenance. "enough said, my lords and gentlemen! we need not that any should instruct us as to our duty." "we trust not," cried carteret, bluffly. "if the french come here we shall give them a sour welcome; and as to my lord the governor, he will find," and he slipped in his eagerness into his native tongue, "that he has made _le marchã© de la peau de l'ours qui ne seroit pas encore tuã©_." presently the little council broke up. the king, after glancing at the paper of association, consented that lord hopton--in whose diplomatic abilities he perhaps did not feel much confidence--should proceed at once to the hague, and lay the case before the states general of holland as the power most interested--after england--in sifting and, if need were, opposing the designs of france. meanwhile the articles of the association were not to be divulged; the whole affair being kept a profound secret and mystery of state. somewhat relieved, the associates then retired from the presence of the yawning king, and passed down the little corridor. here they found elliot keeping watch, and pacing innocently to and fro. and the graceless page bowed their honours down the stairs, without betraying by his manner anything to suggest--which was, nevertheless, the simple truth--that he had been attentively listening to as much of their recent conversation as could be gathered through the imperfect channel afforded by the key-hole of the door. carteret cursed la cloche's officious meddling all the way to his own quarters, and on arriving there sent a sergeant to the unfortunate clergyman, who deported him to france by the next boat that sailed. on returning to the room, elliot found charles walking up and down the narrow floor of his room in evident excitement. "tom," said the king, as the page entered, "what is to do here? it seems that i am not to be master even in this little island of hop o' my thumb. they lord it over me even as they did when i was here before, as prince of wales _in partibus_." "why then," answered the audacious youth, "i would even show them a clean pair of heels, and take refuge with the scots." "the scots who sold my father!" "the scots, sir, of whom i am one," cried the page, the hot blood of a race of border-barons rising to his forehead. "am i and mine to be confounded with a crew of cuckoldy presbyterians? i will not listen to any one who says so, king or no king." and the malapert youth flung out of the room, while his wearied master--not unaccustomed to such outbreaks--lounged into the dining room and called for his supper. act ii. the manor. if the page was to be blamed for his disrespectful demeanour in abruptly leaving his helpless but indulgent sovereign, his next step was still less worthy of commendation. but he had the perfervid temper of his race, and he was not twenty-two. having attended his royal master in a former visit to jersey, he had made friends with some of the island gentry, and among others with the family of st. martin (then resident at rozel), in which he found a maiden of his own age with whom he soon imagined himself to have fallen in love. mdlle. de st. martin was the sister of michael lempriere's wife; with her she had since taken up her abode; and the first thing that elliot had done after the return of the court to jersey had been to acquaint himself with this fact. in the present excitement of his feelings he resolved to seek an interview with the girl whose charms he so well remembered. a boat was moored at the foot of the castle rock; and the impetuous young cavalier sprang on board, loosened the painter, and with the aid of a pair of sculls that had been left in the boat rapidly propelled himself to the shore of the bay aided by the flowing tide. while he is engaged in making his way to the northern extremity of the parish of s. saviour, where the manor of the lemprieres was situated, we will anticipate his progress and describe the scene. the manor-house stood in its own walled grounds, admission being obtained through a round norman archway, over which was carved the scutcheon of the family--gules, three eagles displayed, proper--with the date 1580. this opened on a long narrow avenue of tall elms, at the end of which two enormous juniper trees made a second arch, of perennial verdure. such was the entrance, passing under which the visitor found himself in a flower-garden in which summer roses still bloomed, and the bees were still busy. on one side stood the house, a two-storeyed building of stone, pierced with many small latticed windows, and thatched with straw. the main-door bore another scutcheon, of newer stone than the rest of the house, quartering the arms of st. martin (_azure_, nine billets _or_) over a device of two hearts tied together with a cipher formed by the letters l. and m. this doorway opened into a small hall, in front of which was a stair-case of polished oak. on either side of the hall were low-ceiled parlours wainscotted with dark wood, beams of which supported the ceilings. the floor of the room to the right was paved with stone and carpeted with fresh rushes, a yawning chimney of carved granite, on which a fire of drift-wood was burning with parti-coloured flames, occupied one end of the room, which was occupied by the ladies of the house. at the back were the kitchen and offices, looking out upon a paved court-yard containing a well, and backed by farm buildings. madame lempriere (or "de maufant") and her sister sate by the fire knitting in the autumn twilight. both were lovely; beautiful women in the typical style of island beauty, which not even the primness of their somewhat old-fashioned costume could wholly disguise. for their eyes were dark and sparkling, and their cheeks glowed with the rosy bloom of a healthy and innocent womanhood. they were talking in low tones of the troubles of the time and of their absent friends; their language was in the island french. "it is more than a month," said rose lempriere, "since i had tidings of m. de maufant. methinks your fiancã© m. le gallais might show more alacrity in his coming." "helas!" replied marguerite, "poor alain will never err on the side of precipitancy. but seest thou not, my sister, the equinox here, and gales are abroad. i did not expect him till the s. michel; and then there are captain bowden and m. the lieutenant's cruisers to reckon with." "you do not appear to mind making the crane's foot, my sister," said rose, with a slight smile. "in my youth lovers were expected to be forward and maidens looked for attention." "it is not so long since your youth, my all fair." "but perhaps m. le gallais is better occupied in another part." "_voyons, ma soeur_; it is quite equal, to me. your m. le gallais indeed! one would think it was you and m. de maufant that wanted to marry him. as for me, i do not want to marry at all. least of all does it import me to marry a man chosen by others. i prefer the ways of england." "_di va_!" exclaimed her sister. "a good man is not bad because our friends like him. marry this good alain, and love him after." the damsel replied by a pretty grimace. "marguerite!" said mme. de maufant, with a little frown, "_on ne badine pas avec l'amour_. or do you love another perhaps? ah! _malheureuse_; art thou still thinking of _ce beau guilliard_, how did they call him? m. elliot, i think, the king's page? i hear that he is returned with the king; and--oh, marguerite!----" "i swear to you rose, i know nothing of m. elliot--" as she spoke a low whistle was heard without. "it is alain's signal," cried rose, all in a flutter. "he brings me news from michael." so saying mme. de maufant moved with a quick step towards the door opening on the back yard, whence the signal-whistle evidently came. marguerite site still on her _tabouret_, her head hidden in her shapely white hands. on reaching the back-door rose threw a wimple over her head, and carefully undoing the-chain and bar, admitted le gallais, weary and travel-stained. taking both her hands the young man gazed in her face with the honest gaze of a loving brother. then searching in the lining of his doublet he drew out a letter, or rather a packet tied with string, and gave it to her. "he is well," he said, "but his heart suffers." "i know it, i know it," sobbed the wife, "but come in, alain; come in and take some repose." with which she led him into the room, and up to the hearth where sate the wilful beauty. "marguerite," she said, "do you not see alain le gallais?" "i am delighted to see m. le capitaine," was the girl's reply, as she rose and made an obeisance, immediately resuming her seat. poor alain! the cold of the autumn evening outside was nothing in comparison with the chill that fell upon him by that blazing hearth. weary as he was, and--as soon appeared--wounded also, his nerve, shaken by fatigue, gave way before this reception. with giddy brain and wan face he sank into the nearest seat. "what hast thou, my friend, speak, for the love of god," said the lady of maufant, while her sister's reluctant eye glanced at him, through unshed tears with yet more tender inquiry. "a scratch, no more," said alain, tightening the scarf on his left arm, which showed stains of new blood. "i am but now landed in boulay bay, and a militia-sentry discharged his matchlock at me as i ran down the lane under the battery. they are indifferent marksmen, my good compatriots, and their pieces make small impression compared with cromwell's snaphaunces." rose tenderly unbound the bandage, found a mere flesh-wound, to which she applied some lint steeped in styptic, and restored the ligature in a manner more effective. "_remets-toi alain, rã©prends ton haleine, et dis-nous ce que c'est_," said she, after paying these quasi-maternal attentions to the fugitive. "and first tell me, how bears himself my michael, and what greeting sends he to his home?" but before alain could answer there came a knocking at the gate: and the scared ladies had barely time to dismiss le gallais by a side door almost hidden in the wainscot before elliot entered, hat in hand, and looking shy and breathless in the leaping light of the hearth. "pardon me, fair ladies," he stammered, "have you any welcome for an old friend." the two women leaned against each other, even more embarrassed than, for a moment, was their visitor. they seemed to remember the voice, yet could not speak to much purpose for the beating of their scared pulses. but it is not easy for female self-love to be deceived. the boy had not changed so much in turning into man but that the face of an old love could resume its familiarity. "'tis mr. elliot," presently said marguerite, addressing her sister in english. "mr. chevalier, the centenier, told you of his return but yesterday when we went to the market at s. helier. i admire to see him here so soon." rose advanced, with the restored self-possession of a lady on her own hearth, and gave the visitor her hand. "welcome back to jersey, mr. elliot. time hath dealt kindly with you: you are almost grown to man's estate." the young scot flushed, somewhat angrily, at this equivocal compliment. "what time hath done with me i cannot tell," said he, with less than his wonted ease, "save that nothing time can do can avail to quench old feelings. this is the first liberty that i have had since we landed. i have used it to lay myself at your feet." the ladies resumed their seats, motioning tom to the place between them, just vacated by le gallais: and the talk soon ran into easier grooves. "i have that to say," continued the page, "that may shake your spirits, fair ladies. what i have listened to this day it may cost me my ears to have heard. but," with an air of important resolution, "cost what it may, i will not nor cannot keep it from you." "a groat for your tidings," replied rose, "we poor women hear none in this remote corner. but is it a secret? women may keep one," she added, looking at the panel that had closed on le gallais, "but walls have ears: and so have you, as yet such as they are, which i would not have you sacrifice in our cause. if therefore your news be dangerous, think not of our curiosity, and give the matter no vent." elliot was a scamp, no doubt, yet he could not but be moved by this thoughtful speech of a woman who could decline a secret. but he had come too far, laden with a burden that he would fain lay down. so long as he kept to himself what he had heard in the king's chamber he might be doing his duty to charles. but charles had insulted him and his nation. marguerite de st. martin was his first love, the welfare of herself and her sister was at stake; he had trudged, four miles and more through the mire of steep and devious lanes to tell them; was he to leave them unwarned? love and duty fought their old battle, and with the old result--love conquered and the secret was told. he had not, it is true, heard the full purport of the secretary's grave words or of charles' light replies: but what he had caught, tallying with the chaplain's disclosures of an earlier hour, had led him to conclude that there was a villainous plot on foot, of which the king did not seem to approve, and which therefore might be made known to those interested without real breach of faith. what he knew he told, and eked it out with what he could but conjecture. the conference lasted long. while it was confined to the designs of the french, on which the short gusts of the lieutenant-governor's stormy impatience had thrown a transient gleam of lurid light, the ladies were all attention. when the page began to talk of the king's loyal resolves and of what great things he would do, they gave less heed. it seemed to them that charles stuart was all too young, too much bound to his mother, to be trusted in an affair wherein her favourite took an interest. tom pleaded his master's cause with the zeal of one who felt himself to have done that master some wrong; but he pleaded in vain. little did the jersey ladies care who might bear rule in the british islands; their chief care was for what would affect jersey, and--above all men and things of jersey--their dear michael, now in exile. it had long grown dusk, and tom knew that he was absent without leave. his visit must be cut short. if he glanced significantly at marguerite as he bent over rose's hand, if he hoped that marguerite would follow him to the door and allow an integration of former toys, he was only building on a precocious knowledge of the sex. "i will but lock the door after mr. elliot," said she to rose, in patois, "be tranquil, my sister, he is but an infant." the dismissal of the infant appeared a work of time. in the meanwhile rose opened the wainscot door, and called softly up the narrow stair to which it led. alain heard her, and came down, looking anxiously round the parlour as he came inside. "is marguerite gone out," he asked, "with yonder _polisson_ of the court?" "thou knowest her, my friend," answered madame de maufant, kindly; "ever since her mother's death she has been a daughter to me. but a sister is not a mother at the end of the account; and our little one will not be kept a prisoner. she has learned english ideas in her girlhood, passed as you know with our london kinsfolk. once she is married her husband will find her faithful, in life and to the death." "such freedoms are not according to our island ways." "be not stupid, my good alain. mr. elliot is an old friend; though her dealings with him--or with others--be never so little to thy taste, i advertise thee to seek no cause of quarrel upon them; unless thou wouldst lose her altogether." "i do not understand how a girl that is promised can do such things. moreover, his coming here at all is what michael would not find well." "he has done us a very friendly act in coming here, and has told us of a matter which it may cost him dear to have revealed. for the rest, we can take very good care of ourselves." alain was not a man of the world. with something of a poet's nature, he was born to be the slave of women. passionately attached to the mother who had brought him up--and who was lately dead--and wholly unacquainted with the coarser aspects of feminine character, he had a romantic ideal of womanhood. the ladies in whose company he might chance to find himself were usually quick enough to discover this; and seeing him at their feet were always trampling upon him, reserving their wiles and fascinations for men who were more artful or less chivalrous. the case was by no means singular in those days, and is believed to be occasionally reproduced even in more recent times. he was now thoroughly annoyed; and rose's reasoning, far from composing his mind, had rendered it only the more anxious. therefore, when marguerite returned into the parlour, with a somewhat heightened colour, alain affected to take no notice of her, and sate gazing moodily at the fire. "i have been plucking these roses," said the girl, offering alain a bunch of flowers wet with early dew. he took them with a negligent air, stuck one of the buds into the band of his broad-brimmed hat that lay on the table, and allowed the rest to fall upon the rushes that strewed the stone floor. marguerite, with a slight and mocking grimace, watched the ill-tempered action without taking any audible notice of it. then resuming her seat, she took up her wool and needles and applied herself to her interrupted knitting. meantime the page, apparently well satisfied with the circumstances of his visit, including those of his parting from the fair marguerite, pursued his way to s. helier. the darkness of the autumn evening was relieved by the multitudinous illumination of a cloudless sky. the lanes, bordered by the fortress-like enclosures of the fields, were shaded overhead by tunnels of interlacing boughs still in the full thickness of their summer foliage. a bird, disturbed by elliot's brushing against the branch on which she roosted, gave a solitary cry of angry alarm; the dogs barked in the distant farms; the grazing cows, tethered in the wayside pastures, made soft noises as they cropped the grass. passing on by the old grammar school of s. manelier and then through the village of five oaks, where he scared a quiet family assembled in their parlour by looking in at their window with a grimace and a wild scream, he ran on rapidly by the town mills and through the town towards the quay. when he reached the bridge-head the tide was ebbing; but partly walking, partly wading, he made good his footing on the castle-rock. a sleepy sentry challenged, but the page crept through the darkness without deigning a reply. a ball whizzed through his hat, but did not check his progress. availing himself of projections in the wall with which he seemed well acquainted, he entered his own little room by the open casement, and throwing himself on the pallet soon slept the sleep of youth and healthy fatigue. at maufant matters were not quite so peaceful. the ladies there, it may be feared, were ready enough to regret the page's visit and its consequences, if not to express that regret to the old friend who might with some cause have complained. pretending indifference, he sate silently in a seat further from the ladies than that which he had occupied before the page's intrusion. finding him disinclined for talk, rose read her husband's letter without taking any further notice of him by whom it had been brought. at length she broke the awkward silence; replacing the letter in her bosom and turning to alain, she said:-"i must go and get your chamber ready. i shall be back anon." and she left the room by the concealed door. left alone with his mistress, alain fell into a great embarrassment. marguerite, for her part, felt a qualm of conscience, had he only known it. but her _amour-propre_ was, none the less, extremely hurt by his cavalier treatment of her flowers. she was by no means in love with the saucy scot, who had indeed given her some offence by the frankness of his leave-taking, though this was a matter of which she was not likely to complain, least of all to her official adorer. "_pourquoi me boudez-vous, monsieur_?" at last she said; "are you perhaps permitting yourself to be offended at my seeing m. elliot to the door? do you not know that he is our old friend?" "he is nothing to me," answered alain, moodily, "it is you of whom i am thinking." "as rose says, we can take care of ourselves. do you for one moment think that i acknowledge any restraining right on your part, any privilege of question even? but come, if m. elliot is an old friend you are a much older. do not let us quarrel." "it takes two to make a quarrel," said the foolish fellow, not observing the olive-branch. if his display of annoyance was only a mask of jealousy she fancied that she could deal with it, and forgive it, but if it should be really a sign of indifference? so reasoned her rapid female brain; the cruder masculine mind was but too ready to supply the solution of the problem. "_voyons, marguerite_," said her lover, almost blubbering. "i have loved you all your life. ever since you were a little totterer whom i carried in my arms and planted on the top of the garden wall to pick coquelicots, i have thought of you as one to be some day mine. i see now how foolish i have been. i will put the sea between us; and i hope my boat will go to the bottom; and then perhaps you will be sorry." ... and in the fervour of self-pity he actually shed tears. marguerite watched him, with a joyous sense of triumph. secure of her victory, she could now assume her turn to show anger. but she did not feel it; and she had not much skill in the feigning of unbecoming passions. "that is ungenerous, monsieur. you do not think of the poor boatmen who would go to the bottom with you. they are not sulky young men who have quarrelled with harmless women. the race of alderney will do without them; _dame_! it may afford to wait for you too." if alain had but caught the look with which these final words were accompanied! but he was still sitting in the distant darkness, with his moistened eyes bent obstinately on the ground. and so the misunderstanding widened and deepened; and presently rose returned. taking in the situation with a rapid glance, she passed through the room and out into the buttery, whence she soon returned with the materials of a modest supper. "we must be our own domestics," she said with an attempt at lightness: but the attempt was hollow; a cloud seemed to fill the low room, and press upon the inmates. the _three_ sate down, but neither of the young people did much justice to her hospitality. after supper she held a brief consultation with alain; and after giving him a bag of gold and a letter for her husband, dismissed him, to rest if not to slumber, in the chamber that stood at the head of the stair on which the door in the wainscot opened. then she and marguerite retired by the other door to their own part of the upper floor, where i fear the young lady received a lecture before she went to her virgin couch. act iii. the states. next morning the militia captain left before the house was awake, to return to lempriere in london. when the ladies went, later in the forenoon, to arrange the chamber in which he had passed the night, they found that the bed had not been used during le gallais' occupation. a copy of ben jonson's poems lay on the table; by the side of which were pen and ink, and a burnt-out candle. on opening the book, mdlle. de st. martin found some lines written on the fly-leaf, which ran as follows:- "what tho' the floures be riche and rare of hue and fragrancie, what tho' the giver be kinde and fair, they have no charme for me. the wreathe whose brightest budde is gone is not ye wreathe i'de prise: i'de pluck another, and so passe on, with unregardfull eyes. and so the heart whose sweet resorte an hundred rivalls share may yielde a moment's passing sporte, but love's an alyen there." "he is unpolite, my sister," cried marguerite, laughing. "but that is only because he is sore. the wounded bird has moulted a feather in his empty nest." "all the same, he is flown," answered mdme. de maufant, gravely. "_n'importe_," answered the damsel. "leave him to me. i can whistle him back when i want him--if i ever do." leaving the ladies to the discussion of the topic thus set afoot, let us turn to the more prosaic combinations of the rougher, if not harder, sex. _majora canamus!_ about four miles south-east of the manor-house, the old castle of gorey arose out of the sea, almost as if it grew there, a part of the granite crag. a survival of the rude warfare of plantagenet times, it bore--as it still does--the self assertive name of "mont orgueil," and boasted itself the only english fortress that had ever resisted the avenger of france, the constable bertrand du guesclin. but, in spite of its pride, it proved to be commanded by a yet higher point, sufficiently near to throw round shot into the castle in the more advanced days to which our tale relates. for this reason, and also because of the smallness of the harbour at its feet, mont orgueil had given way to the growing importance of s. helier, protected by its virgin castle. hence the place, though not quite in ruins, had sunk to a minor and subordinate character; the hall, in which the states had once assembled, was neglected and dirty; the chambers formerly appropriated to the governor and his family were used as cells, or not used at all; the garden was unweeded; and mont orgueil in general had sunk to be a prison and a watch-tower. none the less proudly did it rise--as it does still--with a protecting air above its little town and port, and look defiance upon the opposite shores of normandy. in a narrow guard-room on the south side of this castle, a few days later than the visit of la cloche to the king, the lieutenant-governor was sitting at a heavy oaken table, with his steel cap before him and his basket-hilted sword hung by the belt from the back of his carven chair. a writer sate at the left-hand side of the same table, and between them lay militia muster-rolls and other papers. at the further end of the room, between two halberdiers in scarlet doublets, stood a tall jerseyman in squalid garments, his legs in fetters, his wrists in manacles. keen little grey eyes peered through the neglected black hair that fell over his narrow brow; and his iron-grey beard showed signs of long neglect. "now, pierre benoist," said sir george, "for the last time i give you warning. if you do not speak, freely and to the purpose, it will be the worse for you. there be those who can tell me what i desire to know. as for you, i shall deliver you to the provost-sergeant, who will need no words from me to tell him how to deal with you. i ask you, is michael lempriere in correspondence with henry dumaresq?" "_palfrancordi!_ messire; you press me hard," said the prisoner, but his eye was scarcely that of a pressed man. "when you examined me a week ago in secret i think i answered that. i know of no letters that have passed between m. de samarã¨s and m. de maufant. that is," he added hastily, as the governor began to look impatient, "i have carried none myself." "who has?" asked the governor. the greffier, at a signal from carteret, plunged his pen into the ink; the halberdiers shifted their legs and leaned upon their weapons; the prisoner moistened his lips with his tongue. "speak, benoist; who carried the letters?" "it was alain le gallais," answered pierre in a low voice. "it was alain le gallais? write, master greffier, the prisoner says that the letters were carried by one alain le gallais. you are sure of that, benoist?" "as sure as my name is peter." a cock crew in the yard of the castle. the coincidence did not seem to strike any of the party in the room. "by what route did le gallais go?" "he went by boulay bay." "by what conveyance?" "by lesbirel's lugger." "when did he go last?" "this is the fourth day." carteret compared these replies with some that lay before him, and proceeded:-"do you know when he will return?" "i cannot know; but i can divine. the wind is changing; if he landed at southampton on monday night he would be in london in twenty-four hours, riding on the horses of the parliament. riding back in the same way he might be back in boulay bay, with a fair wind, some time to-morrow." "_c'est assez_," said the governor, "take the prisoner away; but not to his former quarters. lodge him in prynne's old cell." as the prisoner was being removed, in obedience to these orders, he was seen to limp heavily, and there was a bandage on one of his legs. "march, comrade," said one of his guards, when they were in the corridor. "my leg was hurt, john le gros, when i tried to escape last night." "not so badly but you can walk if you like," and the militia-man emphasised his words by a slight thrust with the point of his weapon. to which of the parties in the island master benoist was faithful, the muse that presides over this history declines to reveal: perhaps he was an impartial traitor to both. it became presently clear that, in any case, his lameness was little more than a feint. during that same night he made a rope of his bedding, and letting himself down from the window of his cell at high water, swam like a fish to the unwatched shore of anneport, and so effected his escape. it was long ere he was again heard of by the jersey authorities; but there is no record to show that he was either mourned or missed. for the next three nights a party of soldiers--not militia-men, but cornishmen of the royal body-guard--occupied a hut on the landing-place at boulay bay, belonging to lesbirel, the man whose lugger was known to be employed in the communication between the parliamentary party in the island and their english allies. the third night being dark and stormy, the patrol was suspended by orders of the sergeant in command, and the men devoted themselves to the indoor pleasures afforded by cards, tobacco, and cider. but others were less careful of personal comfort. on the western point of the cliff over their heads (the "belle hougue") a beacon was burning, of whose existence the sergeant and his men were unaware. a man watched by the fire, keeping it alive by constant care and attention, or rekindling it from time to time, when it was overcome by the wind and rain. the soldiers in their hut did not see the light; but it was seen by the crew of a lugger, driving through the waves of the flowing tide before a rough but favouring gale. accordingly, putting the helm down, their steersman drove the craft clear of the threatened danger that was prepared for the occupants below, and made her touch the land in the adjacent bay of bonne nuit, hid from observation by the interposing cliffs. leaping to the shore, alain le gallais, who was the sole passenger, climbing the western heights, made his way by paths with which he was well acquainted from his youth, to the manor-house of his exiled friend the seigneur of maufant. it was near midnight when he arrived. all was dark. the yard-dog, roused by his familiar footsteps, shook himself and sate down without raising any alarm: nay, when alain lifted the latch and passed through the outer gate of the court-yard, the animal rose once more, and advanced to meet alain, fawning and wagging his tail. alain was not sorry that the ladies were asleep. perhaps the readers of his verses may not have understood that he was a poet; but, be it remembered, those verses were in a language not native to the writer. those who are able to understand such fragments of his patois-poetry as still survive, declare that it is marked by tenderness and _verve_; even if this be not so, a man may lack the power of expression and yet have the poet's temper; alain was certainly of a deep and sensitive nature; he thought that he had borne much from marguerite, with whom he was now really angry; it was therefore of set purpose that he had chosen this hour to visit the manor instead of waiting till the morning. depositing a letter with which lempriere had entrusted him in a cornbin of the stable which mdme. de maufant had instructed him to use in such cases, he went his way without disturbing any of the inmates of the house. his intention was to pass the rest of the night in the barn of a farm called la rosiã¨re, where he would be safe from pursuit for the moment, and in the morning could join a party of the "well-affected," who were in the habit of meeting in the neighbouring parish of s. lawrence. man proposes; but his purpose was destined to failure. the sky had cleared in the sudden way so common at midnight in these islands. the guard at lesbirel's, turning out to patrol, had at last caught sight of the fire burning on the point above them. taking alarm, the sergeant, who was an intelligent and aspiring soldier, guessed that something was amiss, and set off at the head of his men to search for the escaped prey. taking the road to the manor, where he had reason to believe lempriere's messenger would be found, and spreading his men among the shadows of the bordering walls and hedges, he came upon the fugitive in a lane. to his challenge, "who goes there?" he received for answer a pistol-shot, which laid him low in the mire of the lane, with a great flesh wound in the right shoulder; but the soldiers hearing the report ran up from both sides. le gallais was overpowered and secured after a brief resistance. "search him and take him to the governor," said the wounded sergeant, as he swooned from loss of blood. the following morning found sir george and his clerk in their old places in the gorey castle. pale and draggled, le gallais confronted his examiners with such firmness as he could gather from a good cause. "you have nothing against me, messire de carteret," he said firmly. "if i have not i shall soon make it," said the governor fiercely. "whence were you coming when you pistolled my sergeant?" "i was going to join my company of militia, in order to be present at morning exercise," answered the prisoner, undauntedly. "your sergeant laid hands on me without warrant or warning on a public thoroughfare, and i shot him in self-defence. what would you have done in my place?" "insolence will not avail you. if you would save yourself from the gallows, you have but one way. you must make a clean breast of it." le gallais made no answer, but stooping down, drew a letter out of his boot and threw it on the table. the governor started as he read the address:-"for the honoured hands of sir george carteret, knight and baronet, these." he cut the string and opened the missive. after reading a few lines he looked up. "clear the room," he said; and as the clerk and guards obeyed, he added, in a changed tone:-"be seated, m. le gallais! "this letter, as you probably know, is from mr. prynne, of the parliament. why did you not bring it to me at once?" "i should have done so," answered le gallais. "it contains matter of the utmost moment," added the governor, after finishing the perusal. "are you aware of its contents?" "of its general purport, yes," answered le gallais. "the emissaries of queen henrietta are due from s. malo this day. they will not go to you (unless they are forced) nor yet to mr. secretary nicholas. they are the bringers of a secret communication from the queen mother to her son. you see, sir, that i may be trusted." "by the faith of a gentleman, it is too strong," cried the governor, in an impassioned voice. "was ever honour or gratitude known among that family? but i care not. your friends, m. le gallais, are my enemies. if whitelock and company send to this island all the rebels outside the gates of hell i will fight them. you may depart and take them that message from me." le gallais did not move. "but in case of a french force landing--?" "in that case, sir," answered the governor, and his voice rose to a quarter-deck shout. "in that case it would be 'up with the red cross ensign and england for ever!'" le gallais rose and in a gentler tone echoed the cry, sharing the generous impulse. "now go," said the governor, more gently, "go to the buttery and get thyself refreshed. i know what a sailor's appetite can be. no words; you came from england last night. god bless england and all her friends!" so saying the governor departed, and in a few minutes more was seen to mount his horse at the fort gate and gallop towards s. helier, followed by a single orderly. immediately on arriving at the town, sir george's first care was to send his follower to the dã©nonciateur and order him to summon an extraordinary meeting of the states. after which be went on to the castle and demanded an immediate audience of the king. charles was sitting in his chamber, indolently trimming his nails. a tall swash-buckler, with a red nose and a black patch over his eye, was with him, also seated and conversing with familiar earnestness, as the governor entered. "how now?" asked the king, with some show of energy; "to what are we indebted for the honour of this sudden visit? were you not told, sir george, that we were giving private audience to major querto?" "faith i was, sir," answered carteret, with a seaman's bluntness. "but, under your pardon, i am lieutenant-governor of this island and castle; i know the matter on which major querto hath audience, and it is not one that ought to be debated in my absence." charles looked at carteret with a mixture of impatience and _ennui_. but the governor was not a man to be daunted by looks; and with charles, the last speaker usually prevailed, unless he was much less energetic than in the present instance. "if there be any man more ready to lay down life in your majesty's service than george carteret, i willingly leave you in his hands. but your majesty knows that there is not. i am here to claim that the message from the queen be laid before the states. we are your majesty's to deal with; but if we are to help, we must know in what our help is required." charles gave way before a will far stronger and a principle far higher than his own. "go, major," he said, with an expressive look and gesture. "let messieurs les etats know of our mother's message. sir george! be pleased to bring major querto into your assembly. and, i pray you, bid some one send me here tom elliott," added the king, in a more natural tone of voice. "_a bientã´t!_ sir george." he waved his visitors out and resumed the care of his finger-ends, neglected in the excitement of the discussion. carteret, accompanied by major querto, repaired to the mainland. they proceeded together to the market-place (now the royal square) and entered the newly-built _cohue_ or court-house, where the states were assembling. seven of the jurats (or justices) were already collected, in their scarlet robes of office: sir philip de carteret, seigneur of s. owen (the lieutenant-bailiff); amice de carteret, seigneur of trinity; francis de carteret, joshua de carteret, elias dumaresq, philip le geyt, and john pipon. these, in official tranquillity--as became their high dignity--took seats on the dais, to the right and left of the governor's chair. below them gradually gathered the officers of the crown, the procureur du roy, or attorney-general (another de carteret), and the viscount, or sheriff, mr. lawrence hamptonne. in the body of the hall sate the constables of the parishes, and some of the rectors. the townsmen swarmed into the unoccupied space beyond the gangway. when the hall was full, the usher, having placed the silver mace on the table, thrice proclaimed silence. then sir george--who united the little-compatible offices of bailiff and lieutenant-governor--arose from his central seat and presented the major who stood beside it. "m. le lieutenant-bailly, and messieurs les etats!" he said, "i have called you together to consider a message from the queen: this gentleman here will impart it to you, major querto, of his majesty's army." the major's face assumed the colour of his nose. "i am a rough soldier," he muttered, in english, "and little used to address such an august assembly as i see here; least of all in a foreign language." "english, english," cried a dozen voices. but querto was silent, and looked at the governor with a scared and anxious gaze. "since our guest is so modest," resumed carteret, "it is necessary that i should speak for him. the question is simple. her majesty, with her constant care for the subjects of her son, has heard with dismay that the rebels in england are projecting a descent upon jersey. at the same time, castle cornet, in guernsey, will be attacked by sea. sir baldwin wake, with your active aid, has hitherto held out against the roundheads of that island; and surely since the time of troy has seldom been so long a siege, so stout a defence. but, with the roundheads assaulting him by land, and blake's squadron by sea--gentlemen, i know blake and his brave seamen--what can wake and a hundred half-starved men avail? to guard us against all these dangers, and against the loss of all the profits that we now have from our letters-of-marque in the channel, her majesty has been pleased to devise a means of succour." here the governor's speech was interrupted by cries of "vive la reine," led by the constable of s. brelade, in whose parish was situated the town of s. aubin, the principal port and residence of the corsairs. "nay, but hear her majesty's gracious project. nothing doubting your good affection or your courage, the queen is persuaded that her royal son's person (to say little of the other small matters already named by me) cannot be safe in your hands against a serious attempt such as can be made as soon as general cromwell returns victorious--as he doubtless will--from the irish war. she therefore intends--and here, gentlemen, i come to the main purpose of our present meeting--she intends, i say, to send over a strong force of french troops to occupy the island." consternation kept the assembly silent. "you are not ignorant of the history of your country," pursued the governor. "when a former queen sought the aid of france you know on what terms that aid was given. you know the name of maulã©vrier; how for six years he held the castle of gorey with the eastern half of our island. 'we have heard with our ears, and our fathers have declared to us' what things the papists did in those days, and how the lord delivered you by the hands of my own ancestor and of the sailors of england. are we to do it again; it is to be france or england?" the hall was in an uproar. with startling unanimity the last word was echoed from all sides: "england for ever! england above all!" returning to his quarters in the part of the castle called by the name of the late king, carteret found sir edward nicholas--who was ageing and felt the cold of sunset--in a mantle and with a black silk skullcap on his head, pacing up and down the little esplanade by the faint light of a waning moon. there was an old friendliness between the two: nicholas having been long loved and favoured by hyde, now in spain, but formerly the cherished guest of the carterets. hence the secretary was both willing and able to give sympathy and counsel to his host almost as well as could have been done by the author of the famous _history of the rebellion_, had himself been once more in the castle. "i hear by letter from prynne, this day received," said the lieutenant-governor, "to the effect that our giving harbour here to his majesty is a cause of umbrage to yonder cuckoldy knaves in london. meanwhile i have grave doubts as to the young man himself--under your favour, sir edward. we are undergoing so many and great dangers and distresses for him that we might well hope to have no renewal of the old dealings to our disadvantage. yet it seems that things are coming to that pass that we may ere long have to choose between england and france." "as for france," answered the secretary, "we may expect due provision from his majesty who is--believe me--a true lover of his own country; as also from your honour, whose noble house has done well-known service in bye-gone times. for england, we know what her power is; but that power lies in the collection of her organs (as sir edward hyde hath often taught us) by no means in the hypertrophe of one organ, and that one mutilated. the church, lords, commons, are three estates--" "alack, sir edward," interrupted the impatient sailor, "this is that whereto prynne would lead us. bethink you of will shakspeare's saying, 'if two men ride on a horse one must go behind.' how much more if there be three of them. here, in jersey, where there is but one organ of government--i mean the states--we may have labour, but we have none of these confusions. but in england, look you--" "if it were as you suppose," cried nicholas, "the king must needs ride before and the parliament behind. but let me hear more of mr. prynne. barring his sourness in regard of stage-plays and bishops--which seemed strangely coupled in his mind--he was ever a wise and moderate man." "marry," replied carteret, "i will show you what he hath writ. he would persuade us--i will be plain with you--to send charles packing, and to yield ourselves wholly to the present government in england. he argues that might is right, and that it is to that a weak state like ours must needs bow;--here be your three organs of government--or rather were--yet one hath ever the last word, the casting vote; and that it is which in very truth governs: the others are but baubles. for, put case it were otherwise, then how would it fare with the public weal when one organ says, 'this shall be so, while another saith, 'nay, but it shall be _so_;' and a third perhaps is divided. it is put to the touch, as hath been lately seen in this nation, where the king came forth on one side with his cavaliers, followed by tapsters, serving-men and clodhoppers; officers and men for the most part broken in fortune, debauched in body and mind. against him were ranged the citizens, the gentry, many even of the lords and the sober well-informed part of the yeomen. your royal tapsters are scattered in almost every encounter, your king is taken, dethroned, slain. where be then your joint-organs, your paper-balance? is it not the merest audit of a bankrupt's books?' so far mr. prynne, of whose wisdom you perhaps will make short work." "i do not say that he is wrong," answered the secretary, with a puzzled look. "i must own that we are beaten for the nonce. and it may be that if we were uppermost we should equally destroy the balance. but who will judge a man's constitution by the symptoms of calenture? the nation is sick, yet it is not like to die." "my faith!" said sir george, after a brief pause of reflection, "i think thou must be right, sir edward. this present condition of things cannot endure: but england will not die. when once men are earnestly disposed upon a way of reconciliation there must be give-and-take on either side until we get to work again. mr. prynne's own tyranny, that of the parliament, hath been already encountered by a stronger tyranny, that of the army. but that is a regimen to which englishmen will not submit." "then you are for the english, sir george, rather than for the french." "aye, aye, sir," answered the other. "for the king of england, if possible. but for the gaul we are not. we are of the old blood of the franks and normans. we have served our dukes ever since the battle of hastings; but when they became english, why, we became english too. we beat the french under du guesclin, we beat them under maulã©vrier. from england we have had none but good and honest handling. we are english above all." "well said!" cried the secretary. "i am no boaster, neither do i claim the gift of prophecy, like some of our saints yonder. but i am persuaded that a day will come when your words will be put to the proof. you will have to choose not between king and commons, but between england and france you yourself said so but now." "_mon dieu_! the choice will be soon made," cried carteret. "and now let us to table. for albeit dame carteret is lying-in, it will be hard but i can furnish a friend some junk and biscuit." act iv. the duel. tom elliot was a very bad sample of the cavalier party. trained in camps, he had learned betimes to seek his happiness in wine, dice, loose speech, and morals to match. as in france, the successors of the sullys and du plessis mornays had become the coxcombs of the fronde, and the grandson of bras-de-fer was known as bras-de-laine, so the character and conduct of men like hyde, ormonde, and falkland furnished no example to such as villiers and wilmot, whose only ideal of imitation was scurrilous mimicry. where the elder cavaliers had been proud to serve their king, the rising generation was content if it could amuse him; and with that charles was satisfied. thus elliot had learned that for such an escapade as his last he might easily obtain forgiveness. it was not that charles was, even in youth, a sincere or warm friend. his easy good nature had its root in self-indulgence. clarendon, who knew him and his family _intus et in cute_, has pointed this out in one of his best character sentences. "they were too much inclined to love men at first sight," so writes the faithful servant of the stuarts. "they did not love the conversation of men of more years than themselves. they did not love to deny, ... not out of bounty or generosity, which was a flower that did never grow naturally in the heart of either family--that of stuart or the other of bourbon--and when they prevailed with themselves to make some pause rather than to deny, importunity removed all resolution." [_continuation of life_, p. 339, fol. ed.] and there were not wanting particular reasons to dispose charles to favour and forgiveness in this instance. though elliot had concealed the fact at maufant, he was in fact a married man. his wife was the daughter of the mrs. wyndham who had been the king's nurse. to this family connection he owed his first introduction to the royal household, which had been constantly improved by his lawless and pushing nature. a contemporary remarked of elliot that "he was not one who would receive any injury from his modesty." the late king's grave and virtuous mind had been greatly alienated by these things, and he had once dismissed him from his family. the passionate youth had recovered his position owing to the wyndham influence, but he came back with illwill in his heart. the memory of the royal martyr inspired him with scant reverence, nor did he feel either respect or compassion for the queen-mother. from these sentiments, however, one advantage flowed. elliot was bitterly opposed to jermyn and the french interest, and made use of his opportunities about the king's person to strengthen him in a like opposition. so it came to pass that, after sulking an hour, the facile master not only pardoned the petulant servant, but promoted him to be a groom of the bedchamber; and the return was made in an increased persistence in efforts on elliot's part to amuse the king and flatter all his propensities, whether political or personal. the "indian summer," or _ã©tã© de s. martin_, was at its height in jersey, when carteret, obtaining charles's ready acquiescence, resolved on ordering a general review of the militia. soon after daybreak on the 30th october the population began streaming in from all parishes, under the mild splendour of a cloudless heaven. the scene was on the sands of s. aubin's bay, between the mont patibulaire and millbrook. on the right wing stood two squadrons of mounted infantry, with their standards displayed in the morning breeze. on the left were the parish batteries, with their guns, caissons, and tumbrils. in the centre were the cornish body guard and the militia infantry in battalion six deep, while the reserve and recruits brought up the rear. all but the last-named carried matches for their firearms, which were loaded with blank cartridge. the supports carried pikes. the drums beat, the colours flew, as charles and his staff, surrounded by an escort of the mounted infantry, emerging from the south gate of the castle, rode along the low-water causeway. mme. de maufant and her sister, mounted on sober but well-bred nags, and accompanied by some of their farm hands in gala costume, occupied a foremost place among the spectators. but the appearance of the castle _cortã¨ge_ threatened their comfort, if not their safety. for the public excitement grew from moment to moment, "and those behind cried forward! and those before cried back!" the younger and more excitable especially, spurred by the fine weather and the novel spectacle, pressed eagerly to the front, mixed with mothers of scrofulous children, desirous of gaining for them the healing virtue of the royal touch. the king's horse, short of work, and participating in the general excitement, reared and curvetted in the crowd, but was reined in by his skillful rider. charles was in his purple velvet, with no token of a military purpose. but on his left rode a gigantic guardsman in full panoply, while elliot came on the right (but with his horse half a length behind) in gorgeous array, though more for show than for service. in his silver helmet fluttered a lissom ostrich plume, his shining cuirass was damascened with gold, which metal also glittered on the hilt of his sword. the tops of his buff boots and gauntlets were fringed with costly brussels point. as they approached the crushed and alarmed ladies, a militia officer rushing to their aid from his place between the guns and the nearest company of foot, came into involuntary contact with the glistening groom of the chamber. the lace of the later's boot caught in the steel shoulder piece of the infantry officer, and was torn. irritated and excited elliot brought down his hand upon the unconscious offender, and dealt him a heavy blow on the side of the face. at this sight--with nerves already overstrung--marguerite became unable to control her usually placid steed; and alain le gallais--for he was the militia officer--was diverted from his instinctive but imprudent impulse of immediate retaliation, by seeing the young lady slip from her saddle into his arms. the little incident was over in an instant, and the king passed on, but not without taking it all in with the observation natural to him. "a comely wench, tom!" he said to his companion, "and one that seemeth to know thee. but it seems that others gather what thou fellest." "faith, sir," answered elliot, smilingly, "i have given him his wage beforehand. it is well that he should do my work." there was no time for longer or plainer speech. the guns began a royal salute, their muzzles fortunately directed towards the sea--for many of the pieces had been charged for ball practice. this somewhat dangerous demonstration was followed by a dropping fire of blank cartridge from the matchlocks of the foot, and then by general acclamations of "vive le roi" from all ranks. then philip de carteret, seigneur of s. ouen, being called to the front, received the congratulations of the king on the appearance of the forces, in which, under the lieutenant-governor, his uncle, he held the chief command. he was then bidden to kneel, touched with the royal sword, and told to "rise, sir philip de carteret." the eighteen stand of colours were displayed on the outer sides of the columns. again the drums beat, the trumpets blew, and with the same state as that in which he had arrived, the king was escorted back to the castle. as soon as charles and his followers had been relieved of their full dress they renewed the conversation in which they had been interrupted on the sands, elliot first endeavouring to improve the occasion into an argument against the king's remaining in jersey. "that malapert bumpkin will be no friend either to me or to your majesty," he said. "at himself i snap my fingers. but it seems to me there are some two thousand of them who cry 'vive le roi' for half a pistole, but would cry 'vivent nous autres' for nothing. if the french land here they will turn against you at once. if the parliament prevail they will submit, willy nilly. and your majesty may feel no ailment, yet have to be attended by the surgeon who cured your father." "whither should i go hence?" asked the other. "the news of ireland is hardly such as to give colour to ormonde's invitation." "i have told you what to do, sir, but got small thanks for my pains. think on it well. now, by your leave i must attend to affairs of my own. may i find you in a wiser mood when i return!" "farewell, then, tom," said charles. "but beware of poaching on a jersey manor!" "there are no game laws here, or if there be the keeper is away." with these words elliot retired with a careless bow, and the king waved his hand gaily as he disappeared. the forward young man bent his way, as often before, in the direction of maufant. on entering the garden he saw the lady of the manor--a rose among the roses, as malherbe might have said. the moment she perceived elliot she stood sternly, and with dilated eye before the entry of the house, as if to bar the way, the united blazon of her husband's ancestors and her own appearing above her head like a crest of battle. "why so stern, fair lady?" demanded the courtier, saluting her, "and why alone?" "my sister is not here," said mme. de maufant, answering but the second of elliot's questions. "she has spoken with you for the last time, mr. elliot. i hope that i too have the same advantage. you should go home, monsieur, to your wife." elliot started, but quickly recovering himself, said, with an insolent smile, "always thinking of marriage, these dear creatures. ah, ah! madame, sits the wind in that quarter? you thought the poor scots gentleman might be caught by the rosy cheeks of a jersey farm girl. _pas si bãªte_." rose pointed to the garden archway. "if you do not relieve me of your presence this very instant," she said, pale and panting, "my farm labourers shall drive you out with cudgels." "it shall not need, madame, to pay me this last attention, so worthy of your habits. 'au revoir, madame!'" and with a profound and mocking reverence the wanton cavalier slowly retreated, leaving rose to sink, half fainting, into a stone seat by the house door. elliot strode off, smarting with the sting of his well-merited humiliation. a brief moment of reflection was enough to show its probable origin. it was evident that the secret of his marriage had found its way to the manor, where the court he had been paying to marguerite had consequently ceased to be regarded as a harmless gallantry, and come to be taken for insult, as indeed it deserved. nor was it difficult to go on to guess the channel of this information. le gallais was marguerite's acknowledged lover, the person who would benefit by the removal of a fascinating dog like elliot--a formidable rival, as he flattered himself such as he must be to a bumpkin officer of militia. how le gallais could have learned the fact of his having a wife in france might be a harder question, but it was one that was not material. revenge would be equally sweet, whether that were answered or not. full of these thoughts the groom of the chamber stalked on to s. helier. on reaching the quay, he came to "the white ship"--a tavern frequented alike by the officers of the garrison and by those of the island militia. the parlour was full of men, some in uniform, some in plain clothes, smoking, drinking, playing cards--a scene of teniers. one of the first faces on which his eye fell was that of le gallais, who sprang from his chair on elliot's entrance, but was restrained by his neighbours, and sat down watching the intruder's movements with glaring eye. striding up to the hearth, and standing with his back to it, the cavalier broke into a forced laugh. "strange company you keep, gentlemen. i spy one among you whom you had better put forth without delay." "whom mean you?" asked the patch-wearing querto. "'may i not take mine ease in mine inn?' as the fat fellow says in the play. may not a plain soldier choose his own company?" "a soldier is a gentleman, and should keep company with gentlemen," answered the flushed youth. "mr. le gallais is no mate for cavaliers. i say to his face that he is a cropeared rebel, a busybody, and a pestilent knave." "i appeal to you, major querto," said le gallais, roused from his temporary pause, and turning to the major, whom indeed he had brought to the place, and for whose refreshment he was providing. "appeal me no appeals," said the major, with a truculent look. "no man shall appeal to dick querto till he is purged of such epitaphs." confusion reigned. le gallais looked about him for a friendly face, and presently saw sympathy on that of a fellow-countryman and brother officer. "captain bisson," he said, "you will speak to mr. elliot's friend." elliot flung out of the house, followed by querto and two or three royalist officers, le gallais, and bisson in the rear. they walked towards the beach, and on their arriving at the foot of the gallows hill--near where the picquet-house now stands--an irish officer came from elliot's group and met bisson, hat in hand. "are the gentlemen to fight now?" he asked. "the sooner the better," answered bisson. "will it be a _pas de deux_, or will we all join the dance?" "surely, a combat of two," gravely replied the islander. "we do not understand paris fashions here. with you and me, sir, there need be no quarrel." "sure, and we could have an elegant fight without quarrelling," muttered the irishman, with a disappointed frown. "but 'anything for a quiet life' is my motto. this is a mighty fine place, i'm thinking, where two brave fellows can cut each other's throats in peace and without disturbance." major querto stood by with the air of an indispensable umpire. the _escrime_ of those days had not attained its later refinements. the combatants were placed opposite to each other, each flinging a cloak about his left arm, to serve as a shield, and they prepared to encounter in what would seem a fashion of "rough-and-tumble" to our modern masters. both were brave men, and in the bloom of manhood. elliot was the taller, but le gallais, some seven or eight years older, far exceeded in strength and weight. after scant ceremony the thrusting began. feet trampled, steel rang. a furious pass from the jerseyman was with difficulty caught in elliot's cloak, and the sword for a moment hampered. before le gallais could extricate it, elliot, with a savage cry, ran in upon him, drawing back his elbow, so as to stab his adversary with a shortened sword. a scuffle ensued, of which no bystander could follow with his eye the full details, till the scot's sword was seen to turn upwards, and the point to pierce his own throat. each combatant fell backwards, le gallais bleeding from the left hand, and elliot spouting black gore from a severed artery. at that instant cries name from the outside of the ring, "the guard!" on which the spectators hastened to disperse, while the lieutenant-governor rode up at the head of a mounted patrol. elliot was taken from the ground in a dying state, and le gallais arrested, and ordered to mont orgueil, to await the arrival of the magistrate, who should make the preliminary inquiry. left in that irksome durance, but with wound duly cared for, alain had abundant time to muse over the mistakes and misfortunes of the past. after the inquiry he was necessarily committed for trial at the next criminal session; and fell at first into a semi-mechanical existence. but slowly the twin stars of memory and hope rose out of the dark, while conscious integrity began to clear the moral ã¦ther. he tried in vain to cherish remorse, but elliot's treachery overbore the effort; slowly calm returned. it was true that the news of elliot's fraud had been made known to the ladies of maufant by himself. but as he thought over the matter in the solitude of his chilly cell, he could not see any reason to blame himself on that account. hearing from querto--who was connected with the family--that elliot was unquestionably a married man, he had only done his duty in warning rose and her sister against the groom of the chamber. he would not admit to himself that jealousy had influenced him in so doing. as lempriere's agent, as the old friend of the family, he could not have done otherwise. all was over between him and marguerite, yet he could not forget that, by the wish of the young lady's friends, if not by her own, he had once been her affianced husband. as for the death of the courtier, it was not in itself a subject for much regret; and, further, it had been wholly the consequence of the dead man's own actions, from his deceit towards the ladies to his final ferocity and foul play in an encounter of his own provoking. while alain le gallais thus sought comfort by the road of reason and of conscience, his heart continued very sore. but on the morrow of his commitment an event occurred which changed his cheer, and made his prison for an instant more lovely than a palace. all the jerseymen were acquainted with each other, and the prison warder, though fully meaning to keep his captive, did not by any means understand his duty to extend to making such detention a punishment to a man whom he liked, and who had not yet been condemned. so when mme. de maufant and her sister presented themselves at the gate, seeking admission to alain's cell, the worthy jailor unhesitatingly showed them into his own parlour, and fetched alain to them, only taking the precaution of turning the door key upon the outside as he left them alone with the priser, on the understanding that they should call him from the window when they wished to leave. pale as death, her lovely eyes ringed with dark shades, poor marguerite fell upon alain's breast, without pretence of coyness. "alain, mon ami!" she cooed in her soft rich voice, "can you give me your pardon?" how far alain believed this sudden revelation cannot certainly be told. all that he felt able to do was to strain the girl to his heart and be silent. rose stood discreetly at the window; but finding that the lovers had no more to say to each other, she by and by broke silence. "we shall not leave you to suffer for us," she said. "carteret is without scruple and without mercy. as a friend of michael's, he will seek every loophole for your ruin. i have already seen the advocate falle. he says that you will be tried for murder next week, and that if carteret presides you are no better than a dead man." "to die for you and marguerite is not so hard," said the young man, with a smile. "you shall do nothing of the sort," cried rose, warmly, "listen to me. the day is setting in for rain and storm. at five in the afternoon it will be dark. then one of us will come back with john le vesconte, of la rosiã¨re, who is your match in stature, and who will be admitted on account of his being of kin to us. he will change clothes with you, and will remain in your stead while you come out of prison in his. he is in favour with carteret, and will be quit for a fine, which i will gladly pay." as she stood, warm and bright with zeal, and intellect flushing in her eye, alain thought that, with all his troubles, her exiled lord was a happy man. but he had to think of his own case. placing the broken form of marguerite tenderly in a chair, he stood up and looked full in rose's face, his hands joined, almost in an attitude of prayer. "do not tempt me," he said, in a low, but determined voice. "i will not put another in my place to save my life, nor even to please michael lempriere's wife. moreover, john valpy, the jailor here--who is somewhat of my family, too, for our fathers married cousins--has dealt tenderly with me, and i will not do what would bring ruin upon him. tempt me no more," he repeated hastily, seeing rose about to interrupt him. "my mind is fully made up." "but for her sake," pleaded mme. de maufant, eyeing the almost senseless girl with yearning pity. "think of her young life, bound up with yours." "alas!" answered he, "who knows what maidens mean? she has been excited by all that has befallen, and will doubtless be sorry for me, and remember me. but her life can never be bound but by herself. briefly, i will not be saved on the terms you offer. existence for me is without value, honour is not." after this speech, delivered in a tone of conviction, rose could say no more. for her part, marguerite was helpless. her nerves had broken in the excitement of the whole scene, and by the time that alain had done speaking, she was on the edge of a fit of violent hysterics. when her sister had succeeded, by the aid of the jailor's wife, hastily summoned, in restoring a little calm, marguerite insisted upon being taken away. alain was left unshaken in his resolve, and rose, weary of the unsuccessful interview, removed her sister to their temporary lodgings in the town. leaving her there in the careful hands of the woman of the place--an old acquaintance--she hurried off to hill-street, where she had another consultation with the advocate falle. the result was soon apparent. to whatever motive carteret may have yielded, he did not preside at the trial of le gallais, leaving the task--as indeed he usually did--to the lieutenant-bailiff. the record of the trial has perished, along with many public papers of those troublous times. but thus much we know, that alain le gallais was tried before the lieutenant-bailiff and six jurats, and, in spite of a strenuous defence by advocate falle, was found guilty and sentenced to death. it would be impossible to describe the anguish of the ladies of maufant, who had remained in town during these proceedings. rose had already spent in the conduct of the case money that she could ill afford. but she knew that her husband would never forgive her if she neglected any means of delivering their champion. nor was she in any way disposed to do so. secret service money was laid out to the full extent of mme. de maufant's powers of borrowing. meanwhile the political horizon grew darker day by day. charles fretted and yawned; but he continued to attend divine service in the town church. he also dined in public, "touched" for the king's evil, and exercised such functions of royalty (as understood in that period of transition) as the conditions of the place permitted. just before the end of the stuart dynasty kingship in england was in much the same condition among the english as it is now among the german nations. the monarch was still regarded as the head of the feudal state, while a number of the leading men were beginning to perceive more or less clearly that society had passed out of a condition in which it could be deeply or permanently swayed by the absolute will of one individual, however highly placed by what one called the divine pleasure, and another the accident of birth. among the personal prerogatives of the crown was the pardon of persons condemned to death. on the morning of the day when mr. secretary nicholas was ordered to bring up the papers in the case of rex _v._ le gallais, the lieutenant-governor of the small territory to which charles's sway was for the present restricted had a long audience. the king had, in his light way, lamented the loss of his petulant favourite. but carteret had, with less pains than he had looked for, succeeded in convincing the facile and intelligent sovereign that for both the quarrel and its result tom elliot had been alone answerable. probability leads us to suspect that charles had his own reasons for the readiness with which he accepted the governor's arguments. among all the young king's heavy faults, vindictiveness was not, at that time, in the faintest degree traceable; but, besides that, he had learned, in the intercourse of the last day or two before the fatal encounter, too much of elliot's nefarious designs upon marguerite de st. martin to suppose that he would with decency punish the conduct of her defender. nor need we wonder if a bag of rose lempriere's pistoles lent weight, even to royal scruples. "odsfish, sir george," he said, finally, "i believe that you must e'en take the pardon of your choleric countryman." "your majesty is ever gracious," answered carteret, with his best quarter-deck reverence, "though under your pardon my countrymen are in no respect to be taxed with ready choler. they are ever courteous and patient. only steadfast malice is what they cannot abide." "i dare be bold to say that human nature hath its operation amongst them," answered charles, with his languid smile. "give them what they want and their temper is easy. but enough of this, nicholas will draw the pardon, and it shall be signed and sealed anon. but, further, take order that there be no more duelling. and now, as touching another of your prisoners, major querto?" "the major was arrested among those present at the duel, in which it hath been shown that he was not a participator," said sir george; "but letters have been found in his possession which hinder his release without further inquiry." "i can be the major's warrant," answered charles. "he was a trooper in goring's horse, and rose by reason of his wife being chosen to nurse my mother's last-born infant at exeter. when her majesty retired into france, querto, raised to be a commissioned officer, remained in exeter. when that city was taken he followed his wife to france, from whence he is now come, bringing letters from her majesty to me." "by your leave, sir," answered carteret, "your information lacks completeness. querto by no means repaired from exeter to france. we have searched his valise, and have taken therefrom a packet of papers, from which it plainly appears that he is a false knave, who hath bubbled both sides. there is among these papers a letter from sir john grenville, to the effect that this fellow was to obtain money from the parliament on a false pretence of delivering scilly into their hands. there is another from bulstrode whitelock, in which the matter assumes a different and a more heinous aspect. according to that paper, querto had been to london, and there undertaken, on the receipt of two thousand pounds, to aid in the betrayal, not merely of scilly, but of jersey. he had taken handsell of his price, and went to france, either to complete the bargain or else to trade with mazarin. i leave to your majesty to determine which." the king moved uneasily in his chair. he shunned the governor's searching eye, and affected to be watching a ship in the offing, of which a view was commanded by his casement. "that vessel appears to interest your majesty," said carteret, "she flies st. andrew's cross." "i opine that it is the vessel of the scots commissioners," answered charles. "an it be so, we will receive them in council. matters of great moment may be awaiting their arrival. for the present, sir george, i bid you farewell." it was now december. the "st. martin's summer" of the channel islands was almost over. the trees were losing their leaves. the last roses lingered still only in sheltered nooks, rich as the maufant garden. the sky was, however, serene, and the sea calm, as the scottish ship sailed into the harbour. she had come over from holland with a favouring wind, bringing the chief commissioner of the parliament and clergy of scotland, together with other gentlemen and officers, and an emissary from the duke of lorraine. the result of their arrival demands another chapter, for it seriously affected the fortunes of several persons concerned in the events which our history relates. our scene changes to the ancient monastic chapel of the castle, in which the commissioners were brought before the king in council. act v. farewell to jersey. the king's ordinary cabinet council was now reduced to three persons besides himself, for it must be remembered that down to the days of the german sovereigns, who could not join from ignorance of the language, the english kings were always members of the cabinet, as the viceroy is to this day in british india. hyde still playing the vain ind futile part of ambassador in madrid, lord hopton and the two secretaries, nicholas and long, were the only ministers present. but the matter now opened by the arrival of the scottish commissioners, was considered of so much moment as to justify, and even to demand, the summoning of the lieutenant-governor, and of all the peers then resident in jersey. the deliberations of this assembly--which may be regarded as being tantamount to the privy council at large--lasted to the end of the month of december. but we are not dealing with general history. it will suffice to record that winram, of liberton, the chief of the mission, appeared charged, in the name of the parliament and clergy of the northern kingdom, to present and enforce certain written addresses, of which the gist was this. charles was to subscribe the "solemn league and covenant," to give pardon and amnesty to all past political offences, and to agree to maintain the protestant religion, according to the presbyterian rite. our fathers fought for freedom, but it was freedom only for themselves. upon these conditions it was observed by the foremost of the king's advisers, that the so-called "scottish parliament" was no parliament at all, neither having been called by royal mandate nor dissolved by the late king's death. it was thus wanting in the essential elements and attributes. dishonour and prejudice would accrue to any sovereign who should upset the very nature of the constitution. yet the commissioners asserted stoutly that their employers would not be treated with under any other style, title, or appellation. the king's councillors frowned. it was added, further, that the clergy of the church of england, as might be learnt from his majesty's own chaplains then present in jersey, would strenuously oppose the scottish alliance. they would indeed rather see the king go among the papists in ireland than among such strict protestants as the scots. these counsels were upheld by certain of the lords; and the lord byron, though not giving such extreme lengths, thought it not well to form a conclusive opinion until it was seen what advices should be received from ireland, where ormonde was still endeavouring to withstand the forces of the english parliament under general cromwell. about the end of the month, however, all hope from that side faded away. the defence of ireland had melted before the two passions of fear and avarice. all the strong places in ireland had yielded themselves to the parliament. ormonde admitted his failure in a letter to charles, dated "waterford, december 15, 1619." on this lord byron joined in urging the king to yield the questions of form or title, and to treat with the scots on their own terms. while things were still in suspense, alain le gallais was wandering idly on the rude quay of s. helier, looking up at the insulated castle, and vainly seeking to conjecture what might be the nature of the plans being there matured, when he was suddenly addressed from behind in a rough, but not wholly unfamiliar voice. turning about he beheld the grim face and gaunt form of major querto, by no means softened by prison fare and restraint. "i cannot say much in praise of your island, captain," growled the veteran, "either as regards hospitality or diversion. out of bare eight weeks that i have lived here, six have been spent in prison; and now that they have let me out, i can find nothing better to do than to count the pebbles upon this beach here." le gallais led the grumbling officer to a neighbouring tavern, and called for a mug of cider and two glasses. when the liquor had begun to do its office, querto showed signs of better cheer, nothing loth to have a companion. "it is not often that a poor gentleman hath even such refreshment as this," he said presently, after lighting a pipe of tobacco. the words were hardly courteous, but the speaker had not been bred in courtesy. "we had short commons in exeter, but then there was none of the citizens fared better than we. here in jersey mr. lieutenant takes good care that they who have keep and they who want go on lacking. yet methinks he might find it worth his while to take care for something else." "what, mean you, major?" demanded the jerseyman. "marry this," answered his companion, "that there be some among your friends who do not choose to starve while there are pistoles to be won by a brave action. hark ye, captain, are you well affected or no? you need have no fear, sir, in telling me. i am not strait-laced, and i can keep counsel. "dost thou call to mind a certain evening in london when you and mr. lempriere were walking home together, and a warning was uttered in your ears?" "was it thou that played the raven? didst thou think that we were of your side?" "of my side, quotha. why, man, do you think me one to take sides? o, lord sir, sides are for the quality. dick querto is of his own side, no other. now, see here, captain le gallais, mayhap you know one pierre benoist that was then in limbo?" "aye, do i, and what of him?" "why, marry this; that he is at large, and hath a lure for your young charlie there that will bring him from his perch on the rock yonder, and mew the tercel in london town. what think ye the parliament will deem a meet reward for the men who bring them such a prize as that?" le gallais was aghast. he was asked to consent to a plot to kidnap the king, and convey him into the hands of those who had taken his father's anointed head from his shoulders. a plot to be carried out in jersey, and by the aid of jerseymen! alain was not a blind royalist, as we have seen, but he had not learned, either from prynne or from lempriere, either that jersey could exist without a king of england or that treachery was a necessary part of the work of liberty. at the same time the ruffian before him must not be prematurely alarmed. so he played his part as best he might. "i must think of it," he said, "the enterprise is bold. tell me no more of your projects," he added, with a sudden shame, as the swashbuckler was about to enter into details. "i cannot now take part in your work, for reasons." "all the better," said the bravo, "but see that you betray me not. the fewer of us the larger the share; but you were best not betray me." "threats are not needed, major," answered the jerseyman, "i am no traitor." le gallais paid the reckoning and sauntered off, a prey to contending thoughts. that the cruel plot should come to nought, if its frustration were within his means, he unhesitatingly resolved. that querto's confidence--unasked though it had been--should be used against himself, was equally unwelcome to alain's sense of honour. in his perplexity, he wandered almost as by instinct to the lodgings of the lemprieres. he had long been accustomed to regard the simple good faith and courage of mme. de maufant as an infallible oracle in cases of conscience. never had so hard a need for an infallible oracle presented itself to his mind as this. he found the ladies seated in a parlour on the ground floor, engaged in their usual employment of knitting. the room was small, but warm and snug. under a pledge of secrecy, he told them in general terms that there was a plot to seize the king, but took care not to mention the names either of querto or benoist. meanwhile the council having broken up for the day, the king retired to his chamber. but instead of resting and calling for refreshment, as was his wont on such occasions, he seemed to meditate an excursion. only that, in deference to the prudent scruples of his council, he was apparently going forth in strict disguise, for he unbuckled his jewel-hilted sword, and took off his velvet doublet. then tucking his long hair under a fur cap, and putting on a blouse, such as was worn by the country people, he walked out of the castle in the dark of the winter evening, passing the sentries by giving the parole of the day. the tide being low he walked across the "bridge," and at the town end was accosted by a man, attired like himself, who was waiting for him there. "owls be abroad," said the stranger. "they mouse by night," answered the king. without further communication the two walked silently through the town, and up the steep lane in which mme. de maufant had taken up her abode. it was on a hill over-looking the town, still known by the name of "the king's cliff." at the back were woods and fields. all this time alain and the ladies of maufant had remained in earnest consultation. rose was for letting matters take their course. she had scant sympathy with those whose policy had separated her from her husband, and who were, as she believed, plotting the betrayal of her country, jersey, and her michael. in these lay all her world. that the king should be carried off to london was nothing to her. but marguerite was younger and more generous. wronged as she had been by elliot's insolent schemes, that account was balanced and closed by the great audit. but she was not without a woman's romance, and the thought that a king, young and unfortunate, was to be sold to his father's relentless enemies and murderers, presented to her ardent mind a thing to be prevented at all hazards. while they were thus debating the dog was heard to bark excitedly, and footsteps were audible in the garden behind the house. "mme. de maufant," said a voice at the window, "come forth. it is i, pierre benoist. i bring a message from your husband." "wait an instant, benoist," answered the lady, unalarmed, "i will let you in." she went to the door, and gave admittance to two men in blouses. while one conversed with mme. de maufant, the other advanced to her sister, and, without taking heed of le gallais, addressed her in courtly tones, holding his fur cap in his hand, his brown hair fell down upon his shoulders. "fear nothing, bright pearl of jersey," said the stranger. "a traveller who has heard of your charms asks leave to prove them." "marguerite!" whispered le gallais on the other side, "be careful, it is the king. i know his face. i have seen him many times in church." marguerite slipped to the ground on her knees. "ah, sir," she said, imploringly, "the honour that you do us may cost your life. your enemies are at hand. perhaps the house is already surrounded. ah, heaven! put up your hair!" so saying she aided the smiling young king to restore his disguise, whilst alain, with a sudden impulse, threw himself upon benoist, whom he gagged and pinioned almost before the rascal could utter a sound. charles, meanwhile not unwilling to wait the conclusion of the adventure, retired by a back door, followed by rose, who showed him into the kitchen. the barking of the dog was at the same moment renewed, and other footsteps and voices were heard further from the house, which was apparently surrounded. marguerite sank into a chair, while le gallais carried the helpless benoist out with whispered threats; and, throwing him into a dark stable, shut the door upon him, locking it behind him and putting the key into his pocket. he then returned into the parlour, and telling rose--who had re-entered the room--what he had done, bade her be of good cheer. marguerite continued to kneel, and her lips moved as if in prayer. meantime the voices came nearer. the dog, with one sharp yell ceased to bark, and knocks were heard at the door. alain gave rose one encouraging look and went out alone and unarmed to meet querto and a number of peasants, most of whom he recognised as belonging to his own company of the parish militia. "what is it, neighbours?" he said, taking no notice of the major, and speaking the local dialect. "why, this gentleman hath brought us here to seize a spy," said one of them--our old acquaintance le gros. "there is no spy here but himself," answered le gallais. do you not know who he is, maã®tre le gros? this is major querto, who came here about selling jersey to the french. "what are you saying in your whoreson lingo?'" cried the major. "let us in." "he wishes to do some mischief here," pursued le gallais. "perhaps to rob the ladies. will you see michael lempriere's wife plundered?" "never," said another of the peasants. "he said a spy had got admission on false pretences." "there is no one here but i," said le gallais. "do you take me for a spy?" "we do not, alain. vive m. le capitaine! what shall we do with him?" said many friendly voices. "take him to the centenier under the gallows-hill," said alain, availing himself of the rising tide. "or, stay"--as he caught a look from querto, in which agony and reproach were mingled--"if he prefers it, carry him on board the first ship bound for france. i will answer for his passage money. handle him as he deserves." to hear was to obey with the angry islanders. hustled and disarmed, bonnetted and bound with handkerchiefs, querto was borne off, howling and cursing. in a few minutes all was once more still in and about the house, only the good watch dog had suffered. he would never sound another alarm. one strobe of querto's sabre had severed his faithful head from his body. alain returned to the parlour. reassured by his telling them the story, they were easily persuaded to retire to their chamber. alain's next care was to seek the king's hiding place. "you must stay where you are till morning, sir," he said, without entering. "i will watch over the only way by which any one can approach you." "as you will," cried charles from within. "but hark ye, captain! methinks a pint of claret would not be amiss, warm with a spiced toast floating on the top." the man and his wife who waited on the ladies had been spirited away by some intrigue on the part of benoist, and the king would have to pass the night alone in the small kitchen. more amused than disgusted with the royal levity, le gallais--who knew the ways of the house--brewed the desired tankard, and, returning to the kitchen, set the hot drink upon the table; then wishing the king "good repose;" left him to his meditations. on returning to the parlour, le gallais carefully secured both the inner and the outer door, put a log upon the fire, looked to the priming of his pistols, laid his sword upon the table, threw a cloak over his knees, sate up in his arm chair with a look of resolute vigilance, and sank into a profound sleep, from which he did not wake till day streamed through the casement. his first care was to go to the stable and release benoist, but that slippery rascal, after his wont, had released himself. his gag and bandage lay upon the stable floor, along with a bar shaken out of the loophole in the wall, leaving an aperture just large enough for a lean man to push through. returning to the house, le gallais found the graceless monarch seated at table before a steaming bowl of porridge, while rose was pouring him some cider. "odsfish," he heard charles say, "i owe captain le gallais thanks for a fair deliverance, and you, madame, a courteous usage under difficulty. but _ã  la guerre comme ã  la guerre_, and i have slept in worse conditions than those of your house, madame. let me but bid farewell to your sweet sister, and i will be back in the castle before my absence has been observed. ha! captain le gallais, you must be my guide back to the quay. this part is strange to me." all charles's prayers were vain. marguerite had a _migraine_, and could not have the honour of receiving the king's farewell. he finished his breakfast, took a courtier's leave of his hostess, and set forth on his homeward way, respectfully attended by le gallais. they walked through the streets in silence for some time, the king having quite enough sense to be ashamed of his situation. "you have an interest," he presently said, "in yonder ladies, captain?" "i have, sir. i am m. de maufant's friend." "and therefore my enemy, i take it. no matter, you have served me a good turn." soon the strangely-assorted couple approached the quay. scarcely anyone being abroad at that early hour. moreover they had come down to the bridge head by way of the gallows-hill, to avoid the publicity of the main streets. as they parted, charles turned kindly to his unwonted follower, and said once more-"we shall not forget our obligation to you, captain le gallais, whenever a time comes for proper acknowledgment. meantime, if you will not own us as your king, tell me, as man to man, if there be anything in which charles stuart can serve you." "aye, is there," answered the jerseyman, out of the fullness of his heart. "for your own sake, sir, leave us. we are a simple folk, unused to the ways of the great world, and only asking to be left in peace." "by the faith of a gentleman," muttered charles, as he made his way out to the castle, "the islander is right in his amphibious way. the solemn league and covenant is not amusing, but it cannot be worse than living here like a seal upon a rock; and when one goes forth to talk to a comely wench, being reconducted to one's rock by a puritan with webbed feet. yet he hath saved me from a shrewd pinch, and that is the truth." it will not be supposed that charles was all at once prepared to drop the little intrigue--so united to his already corrupted character, into which he had been led by benoist's insidious suggestions, acting upon a mind always anxious for excitement, and predisposed by the talk of the deceased groom-of-the-chamber. but the danger which he had incurred was a warning in the opposite direction. benoist was in hiding, and appeared no more in the castle; lastly, the negotiations with the scots now became so urgent and so perpetual as to require his almost constant presence and personal influence. the opposing motives and conflicting opinions of his various advisers often kindled into violent altercation, in composing which the really excellent qualities of the young king's prematurely developed character had room for beneficial action. so the ladies of maufant were left free from a troublesome persecution, against which, nevertheless, they took all due precautions. upon general grounds charles was now willing enough to leave jersey. the bluff firmness of sir george carteret, and the grave counsels of nicholas, by whom the lieutenant-governor was usually backed up, were unwelcome to a sovereign; and his tiny kingdom afforded but little compensation, especially when he was forbidden to visit it, and was virtually prisoner on an almost insulated corner thereof. for carteret and nicholas had heard of his nocturnal adventure, and had extorted a promise from him not to go on land without their knowledge. they had also taken other precautions in the same behalf, which were perhaps more trustworthy. it was finally determined that the king and his retinue should leave the island. the scots' invitation was accepted on the terms proposed by what it was agreed to call "the committee of estates;" and breda, in holland, was named as the place where the final agreement should be engrossed and signed by the high contracting parties. here charles would be safe in the protection of his brother-in-law, the prince of orange, until matters should be ripe for his departure to scotland. epilogue. since the events related in the foregoing chapters nearly two years had gone by. jersey had been saved from intrigues of the queen and lord jermyn. charles had gone to france, and thence to holland, followed by the duke of york, his brother, and later by sir edward nicholas and the other members of his council and court. the lieutenant-governor, freed from even the slight control afforded by their presence, had given full scope to the worse parts of his peculiar and complicated character. more than ever was his administration of his native island marked by unblushing egotism. oppressive, grasping, unguarded in speech, and almost unrestrained in action, he seemed, from one point of view, the model of a sordid, short-sighted despot, making hay while the sun shone. but he had a fund of caution which kept him from proceeding quite to extremes, and his energy and ability were undeniable, as was also his attention to business. hence, while feared and even hated, he was still respected and obeyed. most of the militia officers were his creatures, as were also--as we have already seen--the civil, judicial, and legislative officers of the little republic. the seat of his government was at s. helier, while s. aubin, on the opposite point of the bay, was filled with his skippers and their crews, and the traders who profited by their piratical proceedings. hardly a week passed but some rich prize--usually an english merchantman--was brought in there, to be condemned by carteret's court, and sold, together with her cargo, while the unfortunate mariners who had manned her were left to their own resources. adventurers from all parts flocked to jersey, to share the gains of this new and irregular trade, while the lawful commerce of england was menaced as with a cancer. with the resources derived from his maritime enterprise, joined to what he drew from his fines, taxes, exactions, compositions, and confiscations within the limits of the island, the unscrupulous governor was founding a sort of christian barbary, and becoming a hostile power no less than a public scandal. nevertheless, he could on occasion make a generous use of his ill-gotten gains.[_v._ appendix.] he sent money more than once to the necessitous court in holland, continuing to do so until the king departed thence to scotland. and he kept up such a stream of supplies for castle cornet, in guernsey, as enabled sir baldwin wake, the commandant, to hold out against all the force of the parliamentary power in that island, and against all attempts by sea. indeed this remarkable siege lasted longer than the fabled one of troy, and the feat, however creditable to the handful of men by whom it was performed, and to osborne and his successor wake, was only rendered possible by the constant aid of sir george carteret. most of all, however, did that energetic officer enrich himself, laying in fact the foundation of that greatness which afterwards culminated in his descendant, the famous lord granville, the rival of walpole. he obtained from charles a grant of crown lands, including the escheated manor of melã¨ches. and he further appropriated to his own use the revenues of his personal enemies, the chief of whom were the exiled seigneurs dumaresq, of samares, and lempriere, of maufant. it should, however, be added that he shed no more blood. in fact with the exception of the bandinels and messervy, seigneur of bagot (already mentioned), no one lost life for opposition to sir george. he even attempted to conciliate some of his opponents, restoring le gallais to his post of captain in the militia, and empowering him to offer to lempriere's wife the use of her house at maufant, which he had confiscated. but that valiant lady resolutely refused to hold or inhabit under the favour of an usurper, and continued to occupy the lodgings on king's cliff, though in constant straits for want of money. marguerite, who, however wild and light others found her, was always faithful to her good sister, cast in her lot with mme. de maufant, with the consent of her own family at rozel; and it was chiefly by her assistance that the expenses were in any way met. le gallais also lost no opportunity of visiting the ladies and ministering to their wants like a brother, to the great straining of his own slender savings. he carefully forebore to press mlle. de st. martin with a lover's suit, whether or no to that young lady's complete satisfaction we are not informed. in any case, her manner, though composed by trouble, gave no sign of the state of her feelings; and whether she was fond of alain or weary of him, her self-control was equally to her credit. as for alain, he seemed to be stupefied, rather awaiting ruin than expecting better times. matters were in this state, when one lovely day in september, 1651, alain came before mme. de maufant and her sister as they sate knitting in the doorway. "great news!" he cried, as soon as he was near enough for the ladies to hear. "great news! general cromwell has thoroughly purged the garner. he has beaten and scattered the scots at worcester. 'tis said charles stuart their king is taken prisoner. this 'crowning mercy,' as it is called by the lord general, befel on the 3rd, the same day last year he beat these same scots at dunbar. 'tis a great and a bright day in his lordship's life." "count no man happy till his end," answered rose gravely. "a day of triumph may be a day of doom when god pleases. and how does this event touch us, thinkest thou, alain?" "why thus," replied the young man. "the general is not a man to bear with our lieutenant-governor's oppressions and piracies for ever. like satan in the apocalypse, carteret hath great wrath, because he knoweth that his time is short. for admiral blake hath been collecting his ships at portsmouth, and our informant says that they were to sail to-day, eighty vessels of war. they carry a strong force of _fantassins_, pikemen, and arquebussiers, with the new snaphaunces devised in the low countries. their commander is major-general haine, prynne is there as commissioner, and, best of all, michael lempriere is on board!" rose looked at him with swimming eyes. "and michael lempriere comes as bailiff. he said that he would. and then, when your fortunes are once more high, and you have no further need of me ..." alain faltered and looked down. but for that gesture even his despondent mind might have been roused by the look that marguerite cast upon him. but the dart was parried by the shield of an obstinate depression. "i have arranged," he pursued, "with sir george. you know that last year he sent out a ship of five guns to america, laden with passengers, all sorts of grain, and tools for husbandry. she was lost, being captured (that is to say) off the isle of wight by captain green, of the commonwealth's navy. the stores were confiscated, but most of the passengers came back to the island, and have been here ever since awaiting a fresh opportunity for new jersey. it will come soon, and i sail with the next venture." "with the next fiddlestick," broke in rose. "speak to the silly fellow, marguerite. this is the last time of asking." whatever may be thought of alain's project of emigration, his information was true enough. cromwell had determined to put a stop to the trouble caused by the present doings in jersey. yet he had no desire to repeat the severities of ireland. the jersey cavaliers were good protestants, there had been no massacres, and their cause was warmly supported by prynne--a man with whom the general could not wholly sympathise, but with whom he could still less afford to break on what appeared to him a not very important difference. left to himself, he would not probably have been as stern with jersey as he had been with the blood-stained rapparees and their allies, solicited by the leader of the moderates, he was willing to be won. so he readily agreed to the counsels of those who urged him to accept prynne's offer of service, and appointed the presbyterian confessor to accompany blake and haine as a representative of conciliation and indulgence. setting sail with a light north-east wind, the transports and their convoy, multiplied by popular rumour into a vast fleet of war, and really bearing nearly three thousand good troops and a quantum of field guns, made slow way out of portsmouth harbour on sunday, september 19th. next morning they were in the open sea with all sail set. on the quarter-deck of the _constant warwick_, a fine frigate (the first launched by the new government) lempriere and prynne--now completely reconciled--paced slowly up and down, talking of the present situation and future policy. as they did so their eyes glanced from time to time on the fair sea scape, illumined by the early autumn sunlight, and shaded by the sails of the surrounding shipping. "'tis a fair show, mr. bailiff," said the english politician, "and one that ought to bring down our friend's stomach." "faith! i do not know," answered the jerseyman. "sir george will fight, i doubt. you know him as well as i." "nevertheless, he cannot fight to much purpose, and i see not how there can be any great effusion of blood. by himself he can do nothing, and who will be of his side? it is the divine asseveration of the wisest of men, ecclesiastes vii. 7, 'surely oppression maketh a wise man mad.' and if it be so, cartwright should have but few sane men about him. yet in his fall i pray he may find mercy. and i am forced to lean upon you, mr. bailiff, in that behalf." "_non tali auxilio_," began the quotation-loving bailiff. but prynne gravely pursued his pleading. "you may recollect what i said to the commons' house three full years ago. indeed it was the very night before pride's purge. if fines, i reminded them, if imprisonments, grievous mutilations, and brandings of s.l.--which i once called 'stigmata landis;' but 'tis an ill subject for jesting--could bespeak a true friend to liberty, why then sure i am one whose voice might well claim, a hearing. yet it hath been far otherwise with yonder masterful men of the carnal weapon, who seek their own advancement in the name of the commonwealth. i have never coveted the transient treasures, honours, or preferments of the world, but only to do to my god, country, aye, and king, too, the best public services i could, even though it brought upon me the loss of my liberty, the ruin of my mean estate, and the hazard of my life. when the late king did wrong i withstood him, to the extent of my poor capacity; but i was not for seeing the crown and lords of the ancient realm of england subverted or submerged by the flood of usurpation let in by some members of the lower house. my speech of the 4th december, 1649----." "i heard it," broke in the other, "and well do i remember the hum of assent and approbation with which it was received." "it was printed no less than three times last year. then followed my tractate upon their deposing and executing their lawful king; and other leaves against the arbitrary taxation of what i call 'the westminster junto.' think you that these things can be forgotten, or that my being sent here with haine is more than a hollow compliment? recollect the word that we exchanged at my lodging in the strand two years ago, and bear in mind that it is rather in your hands than in mine to temper justice with mercy when my friends shall be overthrown in yonder island." so pleaded, and to yet greater length, the verbose but earnest advocate. but in truth he might have been more concise, less eloquence would have sufficed had not the idle hours of a sea voyage thrown open a wider door for its display. lempriere was ready to promise anything on the joy of the long-wished for moment. "quod optanti divum promittere nemo auderet." as he himself expressed the matter with wonted latinity. his own nature would have disposed him to adhere to the promise given long ago, and still so urgently demanded of him by prynne. on the evening of monday, the 20th of september, the flotilla was signalled in the north-western part of jersey, where a vigilant outlook had long been maintained upon the very top of plã©mont. the sea heaved to and fro in smooth fluctuations under the bright weather, which shed mild splendour over the violet surface, studded with orange rocks. with favouring airs the stately ships slid slowly on in crescent formation. they cast anchor for the evening in s. owen's bay, sheltered on the north by grosnez gape, and on the south by the cliffs that end in the corbiã¨re--an extent of nearly five miles. on shore all was bustle and preparation. sir george's head-quarters were at his cousin's seat, the manor house of s. owen. the sandy plains to seaward were held by companies of the island militia; the lieutenant-governor's own immediate following consisted of a small squadron of horse, raised and equipped by himself, but mounted on chargers especially presented to them by the king. considering the natural difficulties of the coast, and that the equinox was at hand, the numerical disparity was not absolutely desperate. jersey is a strong place yet. in those days of sailing ships and weak artillery it was a gigantic fortress, if only held by a wholehearted and determined garrison. had that but been now the case, which, however, it was not. the population in general had no insurmountable feeling of hostility towards the _de facto_ government of england. on the other hand, the hearts of the cavalier party were not high. a rumour had been spread--not traceable to any distinct source--that charles had been taken after the rout of worcester. the public, ever credulous of ill tidings, fastened with morbid eagerness on such reports. "sorrow and despair," writes a royalist eye-witness with natural exaggeration, "could be seen in every face. the more dispirited began to cry out that it was in vain to contend any longer against powers that, like a torrent, bore down everything before them." carteret, who though ambitious and covetous, was never wanting in courage, energy, intelligence or versatility, turned the more obstinately to his task. concealing his natural anxieties, he rode about from post to post in morion and buff coat, wearing a resolute countenance, and doing all that one man could do to keep up the hearts of his people and prepare a stout defence. the position of le gallais, though humbler, was much more complicated. nor was he possessed of sufficient strength of character to choose a distinct path and steadily pursue it. determined enough, as we have seen, under excitement he could fight with his back to the wall. nor was he one to shrink from any duty that was plainly pointed out to him. he could not prepare himself _de longue main_ for a definite and consistent conduct; still less had he the power--often wielded by natures otherwise inferior--of striking a balance between opposing motives. his duty as a militia-officer was at complete variance with his desires as a friend of lempriere's. he could not choose between them. he might have thrown up his commission and devoted himself to watching over his friends at king's cliff. he might have cast his feelings to the winds and accepted the post of orderly officer to the lieutenant-governor which was offered him by carteret. he chose neither line but adopted what he called "a middle-course," in other words left himself to be drifted on the current of events. he saw that the position of the cavaliers was hopeless if they had to maintain a long and unaided contest against the conquerors of ireland and scotland. he had no great trust in the willingness of the french, none whatever in their good faith. his ardent desire to prevent effusion of jersey blood was a preoccupation that hid almost all other considerations from his mind. and he had trust in the discipline and morale of the parliamentary troops, and in the presence among them of prynne and lempriere, which saved him from much anxiety as to the welfare of the ladies at king's cliff. as he sate, that night, by the camp-fire of a picquet of his company he heard two militiamen conversing, and recognised benoist and le gros as the speakers. "to what purpose are we here, _mon voisin_?" asked the former. "what good would the sacrifice of ourselves do the king now, when perhaps he has already undergone his father's fate and is no longer in this world?" "if the king be dead, indeed," answered le gros, "i for one will not fire a single cartridge. all the same, he was a debonair prince, and once gave me a groat to drink his health when he saw me holding his horse." "that he is a prisoner is certain," croaked benoist. "and if prisoner to maã®tre cromouailles he can only make his escape through one door. and that door does not lead to jersey, though it may to paradise." here the men got up and moved off in search of cider, which was being served out by the governor's orders at a neigbouring farm-house. but their conversation mingled with the young captain's thoughts as, wearied with the marchings and countermarchings of the day, he dozed in the still night air, lulled by the fire at his feet. deep slumber must have followed, for he started from dreams of tumult to feel the vibration of air caused by a round-shot passing over his head. the wind had fallen to an almost complete calm: a light breeze of autumn morning breathed keen over the barren moor; bugles were sounding, drums rattling, men shouting as they collected their accoutrements and fell in under arms. four-and-twenty guns from the nearest ships were playing upon them, answered briskly by the little militia batteries that lined the bay. gunboats began to stand in, laden with red-coated marksmen discharging their new pattern fire-locks. the militiamen on their part waded into the sea and gave such answer as they could from their clumsy old matchlocks: making good the deficiency--so far as noise was concerned--by shouts of vituperation; and calling on their assailants as "rebels," "traitors," and "murderers of their king." the landing was frustrated for the time. the next day was occupied in rapid movements from one part of the island to another, in order to meet feigned attacks by the enemy who were ready to turn any of those diversions into a real assault, on finding the jersey people unprepared. the lieutenant-governor had no choice but to distract and weary his men, marching them backwards and forwards to s. aubin, s. clement, and gorey, according as the invaders appeared at one or other of those landing-places. the militiamen were worn out by these tactics, and were moreover of the class on whom carteret's oppressive taxations had long pressed with an almost intolerable weight. on the third day their strength was reduced both by fatigue and desertion; and in the afternoon, after more demonstrations a real landing took place in s. owen's bay, the original point of attack. carteret, as soon as he perceived what was intended, galloped up his cavalry, ordering up a battalion of militia in support, under his cousin, the seigneur of s. owen. the english infantry formed upon the beach, and advanced to the attack with terrible shouts and cheers. the first troop of carteret's horse met them boldly, and delivered a headlong charge; but the men who had fought rupert and goring were not to be intimidated by a handful of untrained cavaliers. the troopers were received with a volley that emptied several saddles; and retired, leaving several of their number dead and carrying off colonel bovil, a gallant english officer by whom they had been led, and who soon after died of his wounds. the second troop failed to support them, but guarded the retreat as the troopers drew off without renewing their charge. meanwhile, the militia who should have been the third line dispersed and gained their homes. the red 'coats meeting no further opposition marched cautiously across the island, and encamped for the night on gorey common. carteret, with such men--mostly cornishmen and irish--as remained with him, threw himself into elizabeth castle; the other forts, s. aubin and mont orgueil, yielded, almost without show of resistance, in a few days. in anticipation of such an occasion carteret had furnished the castle of s. helier with abundant provision, alike of victuals and ammunition; the latter being stored in the old abbey church, which was proof against the bullets used by the ordinary artillery of those days. his guns were mounted on the landward batteries, so as to command the town and any camp that might be formed there for siege purposes. the hill above--the mont de la ville--was too remote to cause any serious danger from the field-pieces of the period, which were not capable of sending shot with effect to a greater distance than half-a-mile. he despatched boats to convey his private property to france, and to take letters to the royalists there, asking for instructions and assistance; and then stoutly prepared--with a garrison of 350 men--to sustain the siege against the grim victors of tredagh. le gallais, having lost his men in the late dispersal of the militia, felt no scruple in seeking his friend lempriere. the latter, after a warm greeting, brought him to prynne; and all three presently repaired to the head-quarters, in la motte-street, where they were amicably received by colonel haine, the commander of the english forces. haine was one of those rapidly-formed soldiers, who had been thrown up and hardened by the war in england ten years before. he listened with due attention to what le gallais had to say about the lieutenant-governor's resources and probable intentions. "and who is this youth that hath such knowledge of affairs?" he asked, turning to the bailiff--for as such was lempriere now officially recognised. "he is one, sir, that hath suffered for the cause; a captain in our militia, and my brother-in-law." alain shot a glance of gratitude at lempriere, while haine, laying his hand upon his shoulder, said in a friendly tone; "i pray you, captain, attend me as _aide-de-camp_ until your company be reformed." then calling for his horse, he led the party, swollen by the number of his staff, to the head of the causeway leading to the castle, "if what i hear from captain le gallais be correct," he said to his brigade-major, "the castle will not yield. but send them a trumpet, and let them not have cause to say the officers of the commonwealth are unacquainted with the usages of war." the trumpeter rode forward to summons the castle, a white flag flying from the tube of his instrument. ere he could reach the gate, a gun boomed out from the castle, a round shot whizzed over the heads of the summoners, and haine roared at the top of his well-trained voice, "come back; it is a sufficient answer." and so the fiery duet began--the batteries of the churchyard sounding daily in harmony with those of the castle, whilst ever and anon a piece of greater calibre roared its bass from the town-hill. lempriere made haste to remove his wife and their sister from the noisy alarms of war to their quiet home at maufant, where he left them to remove the traces of the usurper, and restore the old state of things with the help of the steward and such of the farmers as had not died out or left the country. one consequence of this removal was that le gallais saw nothing of the ladies. his new duties kept him much at the brigadier's side; when not so employed, he was chiefly occupied with prynne, who was attracted by the turn of the young man's mind, more akin to his own than that of the "hot gospellers," the "levellers," and the professional soldiers by whom he was surrounded. meanwhile, the siege dragged slowly on, until one dark night in the end of november an old acquaintance, pierre benoist, threw himself in the way of a party of carteret's scouts, who had come on the mainland and were questing for intelligence or plunder. taken before sir george, he was threatened with the doom of a prisoner-of-war, who was also a spy, unless he would tell all that he knew. he asked for nothing better, having got himself taken by the patrol for the express purpose of furnishing the garrison grounds for an early surrender. especially pleased was the rogue when the lieutenant-governor pressed him to explain the nature of a movement of the enemy upon the top of the town-hill, which had been perceived before nightfall; and of the cargo landed at s. aubin by a heavy-looking craft that had arrived in the morning, and which seemed neither man-of-war nor trader. "that i can tell you," said benoist; "they are preparing engines for your ruin. i saw the pieces landed, and drawn by oxen to the mont de la ville. two pieces of ordnance whereof each shot weighs four hundred jersey pounds, and takes ten pounds of powder to discharge. the like has never been seen, and they will carry a ball from mont orgueil to the coast of prance. _ver di!_" carteret laughed; but his laughter was only justified by the exaggeration. it did not altogether conceal the genuine anxiety caused by so much of the information as might be reasonably believed. the anxiety was soon realised. when the mists of the winter dawn cleared up, it was seen that a strong work of granite had been newly thrown up on the nearest point of the hill, and while the besieged were still examining the structure, a vivid jet of flame and a puff of smoke darted from one of the embrasures, and a thirteen-inch shell--the largest projectile then seen--came booming over their astonished heads. two more followed, at short intervals. after the third, an awful report was heard, a babel of tumult followed, and a gigantic column of smoke towered up behind them, from the magazine in the old abbey church. splinters and fragments of stone and timber, mingled with pieces of powder, barrels, and ghastly members of human carcases were scattered, as they rose as out of a horrid volcano. the magazine had been struck and exploded by the great shell, killing no less than sixteen men, and wounding horribly ten others, including soldiers on guard, armourers, and workmen who had been collected for the daily labours of the arsenal. among the bystanders was pierre benoist, who now lay among the ruins, half crushed by a stone, and who died after intense suffering in the course of the day. a panic spread through the garrison; some prepared to fly at once, others clamoured for surrender. carteret called them together; and when the officers and men were all collected on parade, appealed to all classes, as lieutenant-governor of the king whom they had all seen trusting himself in their protection, and as commander of the royal forces in the loyal island "i am determined," said the undaunted seaman, "to keep this castle for his majesty so long as i have a man left to fire a gun, and a loblolly boy to fetch the ammunition. the royal standard still flies over our heads, the sea still lies between us and france, to bring us prince rupert and his fleet. let those who are afraid depart--i keep no man against his will. those who remain will be all the more trustworthy. let the gate stand open for the next half-hour." his orders were obeyed; but as he probably foresaw, no one dared to leave openly. by night, however, many of the garrison, who were of the jersey militia, silently departed. the bulk of the garrison, however, had heard of the storm of drogheda, and chose what they deemed the lesser evil of trusting to the strength of their walls and the resources of their commander. to go to a town where they were unpopular strangers, and where the soldiers of the commonwealth were in undisputed possession, would be to go to certain and immediate slaughter--to remain with carteret was to gain the present hour and the chances of the future. lady carteret and the women and children were sent by the next opportunity to france; and then the work of defence was renewed; the guns were fired, as powder served and supplies were received from france; injured walls were repaired, and aid was anxiously awaited. castle cornet, in guernsey, had held out since the outbreak of hostilities more than ten years before--why should not elizabeth, do as much, until the king enjoyed his own again? meanwhile, december had begun, and the days grew short and cold. haine's great mortars proved rude and cumbrous; before they could be loaded and fired, and cooled again, one after the other, many times, the darkness would come on. the remaining stores were buried out of range. in the black and stormy nights, which lasted nearly sixteen hours, the men of the garrison threw up mounds of shingle and sand behind the breaches made during the day. on the morning of the 5th december the sun rose clear and bright, and a south-west wind softly threw out the silken folds of the royal standard on the main tower of the castle. haine was standing by a cromlech that in those days occupied the summit of the town-hill; prynne, lempriere, and some officers, of whom le gallais was one, stood beside him. in their immediate front the gunners, under an officer, were preparing to renew their apparently endless operations. "this must be brought to an end, mr. bailiff," said haine. "for seven weeks and more i have exhausted the powers of modern war upon that eyry of malignants; and there is still the guernsey castle to be dealt with. mr. prynne knoweth what is the mind of the lord general; but a time comes when sharp measures become necessary. i must take up scaling-ladders and deliver an assault." as they looked out to sea a small barque was seen standing in; by the help of field-glasses, it was observed that she flew the french flag. at the same instant the castle guns saluted. "lo you, now!" pursued the commander, "there comes to them a promise of help from france. as the lord liveth, it must be prevented! i must recall our cruisers from guernsey; that castle shall be breached and stormed on monday. and then on their own heads be the blood of sir george and of those that hold with him!" "under your favour, sir," said prynne, "i think it shall not need." he exchanged a hurried whisper with lempriere. "what flag is that which you see flying on the castle staff?" "it is not a flag of truce," shouted haine. "god do so to me and more also if i make them not like unto oreb and zeb!" the text seemed to relieve the veteran like an execration. "what mean you by your flag, mr. prynne? i am not to take my orders from you, sir, i hope." "it is the flag of england," answered the politician, "of your country and of theirs--the red cross of s. george. the royal ensign has been hauled down; do you not see? god save england!" with the impulse of latin manners, lempriere held out his arms, and le gallais fell upon his breast. meanwhile a drummer from the castle was seen to ascend the bill, bearing a white pennon at the end of a lance, which he planted on the ground when he came within sight, and beat the _chamade_ upon his instrument. the messenger being brought before the brigadier, handed him a small packet. among them was a short note to the address of captain le gallais, in which carteret, reminding the militia officer of their past relations, invited him to plead his cause and that of the garrison with lempriere and prynne. this note le gallais, after attentive perusal, handed to lempriere, who read it over, and waited in silence until haine had finished his own despatch. he then addressed the brigadier, and pleaded strongly the cause of his countrymen, concluded with these words: "carteret, sir, was a sentinel; he hath but done his duty to his master. so long as he was not relieved, he could not honestly leave or surrender that which he was placed to guard. why he now lowers his arms he hath made plain i doubt not, to your honour." "why, yes, mr. bailiff; for the matter of that, he hath put a fair case. yonder barque, it seems, brought him cold comfort. as for that thing they call their 'king,' he is lost. he can only offer them aid on condition of delivering the island to the french. not that mazarin dares affront us by sending a french army to occupy the castle in the name of his king, and risk the giving us battle. far from that, he hath a conjunction of counsels with the lord general, and they understand one another. nevertheless, there is ever a rabble of irish cut-throats, flemish mercenaries, and such-like, and no lack of maulã©vriers to be their leaders." "but if such men come into jersey," said the bailiff, "who can say when or how they would quit, or what mischief they might not have wrought first." "one remedy for that," said the soldier, grimly, "will be to storm the castle forthwith, and let all be over before their friends can arrive." "for god's sake, do not so!" cried lempriere; "not now that they have surrendered." "i will be bail," added prynne, "that carteret shall depart in peace, after giving up all that is in his charge. only let captain le gallais go to him with a note of your honour's terms; and let us await, i pray you, his return." the general having at last consented, after just so much show of hesitation as to make it appear that the terms were yielded to the persuasion of his chief associates, le gallais returned with the drummer bearing the _ultimatum_ of the english commander. he found the interior of the castle a scene of havoc; among the _dã©bris_ carteret, like a modern marius, maintained an air of resolution. "it is not enough, captain," said he, after brief salutations had been exchanged, "that we have fired away all our ammunition, and eaten our last horse, while the blockade of your friend's cruisers ever increases its rigour. after all was done, we could die in the breach or in a general sortie. but there is treachery abroad. not indeed among ourselves, but among those whom we desire to serve." "your king, urged by his necessities, would sell you to the french?" "it shall not be!" cried carteret, with a fierce oath. "let me see your general's terms. better an english parliament than a popish king." he called into the corridor, "bring the best bottle of wine that is left in my cellar!" le gallais handed him the note containing the heads of haine's terms. "perhaps, messire, you would consult with your council?" he asked. "_'a quoi bon?_" said carteret. "you heard what the states carried by acclamation, in october, 1649? all who are with me are of the same mind still." the wine was brought. "what was said then in a triumph, i say now in the day of my downfall; captain, fill your glass! 'england for ever! england above all!'" * * * * * the happy effect of this unexpected but welcome end of strife was soon made known throughout the island. in the towns and villages tar-barrels blazed all through the winter-night, and the best cider flowed free in the farms. at maufant all was happiness. the character of marguerite de s. martin had come out purified from the trials of the past two years, and the coquette-girl had grown into a woman, with but a lingering spice of _mutinerie_. rose, happy in the restoration of her husband to all public honour and private joy, was anxious that her sister should partake in her happiness. "alain le gallais is no solomon; that i grant you," so she concluded a conversation on family matters, which they held after the labours and excitement of the day; "but he can do his duty to his country; he has proved himself a serviceable friend. take him, _tel quel_, my little heart, thou canst not hope for a better." "marriage is a slavery, _quand mãªme_," said marguerite, with a saucy shake of the head. "but it is not," she presently added, "i that will be the slave; and there is some comfort in knowing so much." so the public and private troubles wore brought to an end at the same time. carteret and his followers were allowed to go to france in peace and honour. lempriere and he had held no intercourse since the surrender, but the bailiff and his wife were honoured members of the assembly that gathered on the quay on the morning of the cavaliers' departure. the rising sun threw his orange hues on their swelling sails. "we have won this time," said rose, pressing her husband's arm. "mr. prynne, have you no compliment for us?" "it is our advantage," said prynne in answer; "let us see that we deserve it. there as a power that judgeth right, and in serving of whom there is great reward. for my part, i have done much wrong, to your husband among others. i have been punished for mine offences; if i would avoid more punishment, i must offend no more." appendix. the character of sir george carteret is taken from the materials of the time, without aid from fancy. it should be added that charles showed no ingratitude towards this faithful servant. after the restoration he settled in london, where--in spite of his bad english, noticed by andrew marvell--he rose to high rank and founded a noble family, now represented by the marquess of bath. carteret was employed at the admiralty, first as treasurer, afterwards as commissioner--or junior lord. he was also vice-chamberlain of the royal household; and he amassed considerable wealth. but he never forgot his native island. he endeavoured to found a high school at st. helier, what in the pompous style of these days would be called a "college." but the project broke down for want of earnestness on the part of the jersey people, though sir george offered the then very large sum of 50,000 _livres tournois_ towards the endowment. he lived till 1680. note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustrations. see 26713-h.htm or 26713-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/2/6/7/1/26713/26713-h/26713-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/2/6/7/1/26713/26713-h.zip) transcriber's note: a table of contents, not present in the original, was added for the convenience of the reader. norman ten hundred by a. stanley blicq. a record of the ---1st (service) bn. royal guernsey light infantry guernsey: printed at the guernsey press co., ltd., smith street and le marchant street. 1920. this modest work is dedicated to: mrs. p. ereaux, in appreciation of her genial personality, strong moral courage and unhesitating adherence to duty as she conceived it. and also to: george w. clarke, esq., in memory of those great days when we marched the long trail together; shared the same sorrows, the same mirth;--and now the same memories, far away, indistinct; laughter merged with the tears. a. stanley blicq. guernsey, 1920. norman ten hundred. a battalion of the oldest and smallest democracy in the world. guernsey--named sarnia by the romans--one of the channel isles from out the sun swathed romance of whose shores rallied a fierce band of norman warriors to the aid of their duke, william of normandy; afterwards the conqueror, at hastings, 1066. in reward for their valour william granted the isles the independence they maintain to this day. from guernsey something approaching 7,000 men have gone out into the great undertaking. the norman ten hundred is the 1st royal guernsey light infantry offered by the states of guernsey for active participation side by side with the mother country's troops in any of the fighting areas. the narrative is authentic. contents i september-october, 1917 ii september-october, 1917 hendecourt iii november, 1917 cambrai rehearsal iv moving up v november 20th, 1917 cambrai offensive the advance vi marcoing--masnieres vii holding the line masnieres viii november 30th-december 1st, 1917 german onslaught ix december-january, 1918 houvin x december-january, 1918 flers--le parcq--verchocq xi december-january, 1918 leulene--brandhoek--ypres xii passchendaele sector xiii passchendaele sector poperinghe--steenvoorde --brandhoek xiv march-april, 1918 in the line xv april 10-14, 1918 doulieu-estaires norman ten hundred by a. stanley blicq i september-october, 1917 fed up! every man of the ten hundred was fed up. thirty-six hours cooped in cattle trucks, thirty or forty in a truck and inhaling an atmosphere that would have disgusted a pig--enough to feed anyone up. the belgian frontier was crossed at sunset and the fringe of war's devastation penetrated. little interest or casual comment was aroused, although a reputable thirsty one remarked that he thought jerry might have spared the village pub. the long line of dirty trucks stopped with an abrupt jerk and noisy jarring of impact. then it came! grumbles ceased as if by common consent. there was something indefinable but pregnant, and in tense silence ears were strained intently. was it only the rumble of a distant cart on hard cobbles or...? faintly over the damp air came a long, insistent murmur. hearts beat faster.... guns! northward and then west the train panted up a slight grade, made a wide curve and then abruptly shut off steam. long white tapering lights sprang up from nowhere, wavered and hesitated over the sky; caught in their glare a silvery bird and followed it across the night. without warning an anti-aircraft gun launched with a deafening roar its whining shell heavenwards. boom! in the sudden uproar le page fell off the train, jerking his tin of bully beef into clarke's shaving water. the jerry airman circled higher, dived again--and dropped his bomb, missing the train by hundreds of yards. he had spotted the smoke belching from the engine. again he spiralled higher, slipped the converging net of searchlights and escaped ... ugh! the ten hundred breathed a sigh of relief. disembarkation from a train at a point a few miles in the rear of the front line always tends to put the wind up you. the mental survey of a thousand men en bloc conveys immediately to the mind what an obvious and unmistakable target a battalion forms. eyes apprehensively search the sky for the danger that each one knows lurks somewhere up there in that black pall, the darker by contrast with the brilliant spearheads of light searching to and fro. and of course in such windy moments the order to march off is delayed. then when you are well on your way you wish you were not, for there is an unutterable weariness in those marches to bivouacs amid dead silence from end to end of the ranks; only ever present on the ear that unceasing booming of heavies or the nearer and unpleasant kr-ru-up of a not-far-distant german shell. worn, sadly worn, beneath the staggering weight of packs on aching shoulders, where chafed skin smarts under the straps, head bent forward and downwards, one cared little for direction. onward, always onward, feet burning with heavy going in clogging belgian mud.... sleep, one longs to lie down there and then to sleep, anyhow, anywhere! bivouacs are under the best of circumstances mere makeshifts. "stoke camp"--camp! the irony of it--was on a par with the average. here and there a scattered tent, here and there a sheet or two of oilcloth, and everywhere an abundance of water. still it was a haven of rest. men filed tiredly by in companies, sorted themselves out, and cast down packs; boots were jerked off anyhow, rifles stacked. each man wrapped around him that old and trusty friend--his overcoat, heads rested on the hard packs ... doze and dream.... three headquarters scouts are turned out for guard! two hours swinging up and down, then four hours sleep: and then ... the mind of the overworn first sentry sickens. again and again over the muddy uneven strip, watching fascinated the weird, mad shadows cast in gaunt trees from a perpetual red glow eastwards. from amid the bivouacs a lad cries fitfully in his uneasy sleep; a hardy few can be seen by the glow of cigarettes sitting beneath a solitary tarpaulin. from the distance something high in the heavens hummed softly the while here and there far-off searchlights twinkled, one after another picking up the trail until the whole sky was ablaze with wavering shafts of light. the murmuring grew to a roar, accompanied by a deafening din of an archie (anti-aircraft) barrage and the unceasing rattle of machine guns. the enemy 'plane became visible, its sinister cross plainly discernible, and dived. the sentry heard something sizzle down and--a mighty flash lit up the woods: the whole earth trembled violently beneath a fierce concussion. the roar echoed and re-echoed, was followed by a continuous shower of litter tearing or trickling down through the trees. unnerving cries rose from a score or more stampeding horses in the adjacent camp; but the subtler human ear caught on the damp night breezes a sound that froze the blood ... pitiful low sobs of men dying from the hot flying shrapnel. the guernseys slept on as if nothing had happened. therein lies the strange psychological mystery of the human mind.... the bomb failed to disturb; but a solitary shot from the sentry would have roused half the battalion and sent them seeking half-consciously for their rifles. in the morning the news spread rapidly. in it they found occasion to accentuate a grousing born of the damp, uncheering vista around them. "bombed in the train, bombed first night up 'ere," said ginger, "grub late, no water to wash in; no baccy, no matches--only a blasted ole rifle wot's gone too rusty to clean." washing was a complex problem, involving choice between half-a-mile's walk to a doubtful pool or a canteen full (about a pint and a half) of water obtained from a muddy puddle in the roadway. the latter method requiring a minimum of physical exertion was by far the more popular and each tin of valued water underwent utilisation to its very extreme limits, i.e., until reduced to something approaching a soup. there are always days when the ten hundred arouse within themselves by their own exertions a shy, deep pride of their regiment. it is a characteristic happy knack of the boys to give their very best during parades before the g.o.c., and that was undoubtedly a strong factor in building up the battalion's fame at bourne park. they visibly and agreeably impressed the g.o.c., 29th division, at their initial appearance before him. whether the guernsey's exceptional steadiness solicits approval, or if the rapid rhythmical movements in handling arms--quicker than is customary with other regiments--pleases the official eye cannot be accurately gauged. it is a concrete certainty, however, that the unit composes an efficient, compact body comparing very favourably with its contemporaries. fritz carried on his genial bombing expeditions night and day over the surrounding district, thereby giving birth to defensive measures in the form of an excavation inside each tent two feet in depth. outside a wall of similar height was constructed around the tent or bivouac--few have the luxury of a tent. a degree of protection from flying shrapnel is thereby obtained, unless, of course, fritz registers a direct hit. miniature dug-out were cut down into the wet soil by the more enterprising, but proved ghastly failures, even in the dry hours ... if anything out there could be termed "dry." i doubt it, excepting the thirst of a few reputables. twenty-four hours' rain gave the most ambitious dug-out an opportunity to demonstrate its exceptional capability of receiving and retaining water. the scene presented in the morning was unique. a steel helmet sailed majestically behind an empty tin of bully, in turn twirling by a pair of sunken boots. clinging desperately to a few wet sandbags, four marooned muddy individuals glared ferociously at the interested onlookers and developed fearful vocal powers of emphasis that shocked the genial enquirers who came in dozens to discover if: "a rain-drop or two had trickled in." the peculiarity of being bombed is such that a sense of personal security takes a long while to outlive the insistent curiosity that compels one to stare fascinated at the death above. an up-stretched neck and straddle-legged attitude predominated--so did neck-ache. white, during a raid, threw a stone upon tubby's hat, causing the latter to drop his mess-tin of dinner in hasty fright ... but the sight of the stew sliding gracefully down white's blankets delighted the onlookers and made "honours easy." the ten hundred, of course, attempted to bring a jerry down. sergeant russel nightly pointed the muzzle of his lewis-gun in the air and pulled the trigger, in the hope perhaps that fritz might inadvertently sail into the track of his bullets. unfortunately firing at so perpendicular an angle caused the lead to fall into the adjacent infantry lines and they--they returned the compliment, although neither battalion inflicted any "blighty's" on the other. two companies had to go up the line on a hazardous task. the twist of the coin gave the honour to a. and d. and yet how forcible a factor was that coin in deciding the unfathomable wherefore of existence. it was thrown in the air; fell, wavered on edge, flattened out. and implicitly, blindly obeying the indict conveyed from its face this or that man passed from active, living phenomenon in the evolution of the cosmic process to mere insensible matter. life, then, is chance, luck; to which no guiding factors, laws, or binding principles can be adduced. before marching off from the bemudded "parade" ground we were fed up. constant rain had rendered an always muddy surface into a slimy quagmire, in which every step forward was a conscious effort. there was little singing in either companies (a. and d.), during the short march to the train conveying the party to near a shell-infested area where the said party would partake of its outdoor picnic. "party"--the ironical humour of it! each lad was tired, wet, and hungry. tempers easily ruffled. "wot the 'ell do yer think year bumpin' into?" shouted biffer at an unfortunate who had side-slipped into him. "bumpin' into?" the other grunted, "nothing much by the look of it." they glared at one another like fighting cats ... the contretemps fizzled out; both were too tired to argue. disembarkation during the night in a blinding storm of rain that had materially increased to a torrential downpour materially helped to damp spirits already none too high. bumping wildly into this figure or that, slipping full-length into inches of water and thereby saturating what little dry clothing that had remained so, they peered vainly into the all absorbing blanket of night for the tents, bivouacs or shelters that were not there. we have all had our minds permeated with a strong fear of hell.... after that night many will thank their stars that this abode of ill-omen is hot and therefore apparently dry. each man was told to do the best for himself with a ground sheet. to derive shelter in such a storm with a few feet of oilcloth, no props, no light, is a task to which sweeping back the atlantic with a toothbrush is simple in comparison. but they were up against it ... grumbles ceased. someone by an extraordinary stroke of luck stumbled upon an r.e. dump from which sundry articles essential to the construction of shelters could be filched. filched must be emphasised, for therein lay the ulterior reason for transformation from "fed-upity" to a genial anticipation of forthcoming trouble. the c.r.e. in the morning would raise hell when he discovered half his dump appropriated and scattered by the guernseys over a wide area. the o.c.'s of a and d companies would be hauled over the coals.... there was the nucleus of the farce. the men pinched and the officers stood the racket. the very thought sent the whole ranks chuckling and up soared the high spirit barometer. there was, too, in these repeated silent visits to the dump a possibility of discovery that appealed to that venturesome spirit so characteristically a trait of the ten hundred. they chuckled gleefully at each nefarious trip, almost wished some interfering n.c.o. would appear from an r.e. depôt and originate by his unpleasantries something of a rough house. shelters through which streams trickled were run up and the floors tiled with a queer assortment of tins, empty cartridge cases and odd bits of wood. drenched to the very skin, shivering and sneezing with cold, they gave no heed to the rain tattooing on their faces or to the enemy shells. within the rickety shelters damp figures, huddled together for warmth, closed tired eyes and in utter weariness of limbs fell into a fitful sleep. snatches of song, bursts of laughter, echoed here and there in the night. laughter! what on earth was there to laugh at? the wretched improvised shelters on and into which rain crept, lashed earthwards by a howling wind? the cold, chilly feet, clinging clothes and wet skin? or is there anything refreshingly humorous in the knowledge that death groped about in the night for his own ... found them? is there a mirth-provoking element in the ten to one chance that you may not see the morrow? all honour to you, normans! from valhalla, in his high seat with the anses, rollo of old looked down on you with pride. langemarck, grim, windswept and desolate. a few short weeks before it had by the flowing of british blood, by our own division, been wrenched from the german grasp. there is everywhere about it an awesome sacredness. one hesitates to treat lightly over the soil that belongs to those whose eyes were closed in the taking, and whose warrior forms lie at rest beneath the pathetic white crosses dotted over the gruesome waste. those sad little emblems of supreme sacrifice: "to the memory of a british soldier." simple but magnificent! a farewell to some unknown--to some mother's son. the first shell that scatters you in all direction, secretly feeling yourself doubtfully all over, abruptly disperses any sentimentality that may cling to the mind. the two companies found it so when they marched still further up the line and commenced work on two different sectors, shelled--but comparatively lightly--for the first day or two. the first line over-attacked in the mud, swept over poelcapelle and advanced on passchendaele, pausing while the mobile artillery moved up to support over roads that were daily filled in and rebuilt by fatigue parties similar to the guernseys. the german headquarters concentrated their guns upon the immediate british rear, with the intention of hampering and impeding the movements of reinforcements and artillery. the guernseys got the cream of it. ground was churned up for yards and bodies buried weeks before were blown from their resting places, grinning white and hideous at the sky. work on the roads was one perpetually interrupted operation, men ducking every few minutes to the whine of a shell. life was an unknown quantity--no man could gauge what moments were still left him. streams of wounded ran, hobbled or limped painfully away from that sector of hell. artillery galloped steaming horses through, sighing with relief upon attaining the other end. there comes a time after his first baptism of fire, after his first view of the shattered mutilated remnants of a shell-stricken body, that the infantryman turns towards where invisible german guns from comparative safety belch forth death, and shakes his impotent fist at this enemy. he picks himself up, white and shaken, from where the concussion has thrown him, and amid the cries of the dying, "curse you," he sobs, "if ever the chance comes----!" a battery of r.f.a. within a few hundred yards of the road opened salvoes lasting throughout every morning until the ears throbbed with each successive roar and the earth trembled violently beneath the 6-in.'s concussion. jerry airmen endeavouring to spot the gun-positions swooped down unheard, pumping lead in heavy showers from machine-guns upon the guernseys and scattering them broadcast. pike stopped a "blighty" with his foot, and pleton, a shrapnel bullet whistling clean through his chest, fell limply forward. gas commenced, coming over in shells ... in response to the alarm, respirators were donned with an alacrity phenomenal in its hasty adjustment. de la mare discovered one of the eye-pieces missing. holding his nose with one hand, he spluttered: "wa', wi' i do?" and instantly clapped his hand over his mouth, jumping from one foot to another in apprehensive uncertainty. from within every helmet choking bursts of laughter sounded muffled on the air. the unfortunate lad held his breath until black in the face, gasped in a frenzied intake of air, and gingerly felt himself. ultimately instructed to change into the p.h. helmet, he did so nervously, succeeded, and sat down, inhaling deep breaths of relief. "all clear" was sounded, but from the moment he removed his mask and for days afterwards he was the recipient of sly solicitations from a chuckling platoon. "i wonder why 'e was pullin' on 'is nose?" le page innocently inquired; "ain't it long enough?" "dunno," ginger replied; "p'raps 'e 'as chronic catarrh!" day followed day, bringing little change in the task. casualties were not exceptionally heavy, but the strenuous work and perpetual stress of the nerves told on them. for there is no more nerve-shattering task than to have to submit without active retaliation day after day to harassing shell-fire. it is during this early initiating into a general expectation of possible death that the young warrior has to conquer the psychological instinct impressed with fear upon his imagination from childhood that life is his most valued asset, and must be safeguarded before all things. and now his conception is revolutionised. he must accept death as a daily possibility. it is patent that dusk found them weary and worn, plodding and wading silently "homewards," shovel on shoulder, across four or five kilos of desolate mud; falling and tripping over stagnant bodies, masses of tangled wire, bricks and jagged wood-work everywhere impeding progress. and yet a consciousness of good work done reacted on their spirits. they reflected contentedly of the meal awaiting, of their pipes, their sleep. the inscrutable ways of chance--destiny, call it what you will--brought about the greatest catastrophe that had so far obtained in the guernsey ranks. major davey moved his party over an area--at about 11 in the morning of a warm, sunny sunday--coming in for a spell of shelling extraordinary in intensity. a labour unit retired because of the exigencies of the precarious situation. inflexible, the normans carried on, then--s-i-iz-z ... kr-rupp! the leading platoon caught it in their very midst, a ghastly heap of mangled flesh and shattered limbs were scattered to right and left. two unhappy lads were blown to unrecognisable fragments. no words can convey the heart-rending cries of those whose bodies cringe and writhe from the hell-hot agony of searing shrapnel. there is an unmistakable appeal for pity that stirs the depth of feeling until a wild frenzy to right matters sends berserk passion to the brain. oh, you german gunners in your serene safety, if ever my chance comes...! thus the first of the ten hundred went over the great divide. an order to retire was quietly obeyed. they marched back, some shaken, some bleeding from minor wounds: bearing the stretcher cases and dead with them. some gazed eastwards, faces transfigured with impotent rage, a few white faced boys stared hypnotised before them; but the remainder, heads erect, looked grimly ahead ... they would not forget! a day or so later the normans came out. cookie, black and grimy from head to foot--the only condition in which he really felt at home--prepared the removal of his cookers. "i didn't 'alf 'ave the wind up," he confided me afterwards, "about that there last dinner; becos, you see, a jerry shell wot burst close chucked a great chunk of mud into one of them cockers. wot was i to do? couldn't throw away the grub ... didn't 'ave no more, so i just stirred it all up. anyhow," reflectively, "it made it thicker, and they sez it was 'tray bun.'" and so they came away with out farewell glance across that tragic countryside, lonely and desolate as if god-forsaken in its very devastation. the eye took in the reflected light in a myriad pools, the white crosses, sinister wire treking right away to where a few solitary tree stumps stood up madly against the skyline. they thought with a pang of those who slept the long last sleep in the clinging wet soil, whose footsteps would no longer ring on the hard road in rythmic chorus with the old ten hundred, whose voices would ne'er again swell the battalion's marching rallies.... following a brief rest the 29th division trained, from poperinghe southwards. the same weary cooping in cattle-trucks, same monotonous crawl. and yet during a halt at hazebrucke arose one of those moments that live long in memory, when patriotism rises high in the breast. the station was crowded with soldiers and civilians as the guernseys' train drew up in the cool, dusky evening light. someone played a cornet: "the long, long trail." from end to end of the train the ten hundred caught it up and sang low in their soft southern accent. a hush fell on the chattering onlookers, they turned and stared. the harmony enveloped them, stirred them ... and we, ah, how the blood stirs even now. but the memory saddens--for the voices of many are for ever still. ii september-october, 1917 hendecourt the mad rattle of strife in belgium had throbbed on the ear-drums incessantly day and night, but on the frontage beyond hendecourt and arras little more than an occasional "verey" light from the fritz line played hesitatingly on the grotesque landscape. even the guns were silent: the crack of a rifle-shot or far-off splutters from machine-guns were the only sounds to mingle with the harsh jumbled tread of the royal guernseys marching over cobbles and bad roads to the encampment of iron huts. the going from beaumetz, through shell-shattered villages, by roads twisting up and down long hills, commenced to tell on the men long before the first halt was due. breathing became, in many cases, long and heavy; some stumbled blindly forward with heads strained down, and others impotently cursed at the higher command for not calling a halt. sweat trickled over dust-begrimed countenances, feet were aching, the tongue clove parched to the mouth, the pack ... oh, the utter hell of it. and yet on the morrow you forgot! on territory recaptured (during march, 1917) from fritz and within a few hundred yards of his original reserve line, still intact and heavily protected with barbed wire, was the conglomeration of huts that formed for nearly three weeks the home of the ten hundred. the infantryman sees far more of the trenches than of rest camps, and therefore what precious days of absence from the joys of water-logged dug-outs comes his way are seized upon and lived to the very full. the normans had not experienced very much--but they had had quite enough. ginger le ray, basking his fair unshaven features in the sun and lovingly watching lomar pulling at a fat (and dubious) cigar, aired the battalion's sentiments with: "this is orlright. anything except paschendaele or my ole woman." a battalion offers widely divergent contrasts in the psychology of men composing its ranks, and it is with the intention of bringing the reader into intimate and personal touch with all these types of men that this chapter is penned. nick names are as common as daisies in the army and by this medium a large number of characters will be portrayed and the fate awaiting each one later recorded. to those who imagine that death has set laws for claiming this or that type there will be ample argumentative data--but this is a factor upon which no scientific grounds can be used as a base for theories. life is chance! there are good, indifferent, and bad soldiers among the normans. the first can be disposed of briefly: they are never adrift, never for company orders, always spotless and first on parade; perpetually shining and exhibiting glistening buttons before the company-sergeant-major in vague hope of promotion. a detestable type, fortunately in the minority. of "indifferent" in the above sense but inordinately proud of their battalion on parade and who gave of their best when demanded, 80 per cent. of the norman element was formed. and the bad! dare devils and schemers of the deepest dye, ever on the qui vive to dodge fatigues, caring not a brass button for the c.o. himself. martel, leman, white, evans. good fellows all. afraid of nothing except hard work, shining-up and guards. nebo, whose ankle when its owner was nabbed for a working party, would twist beneath him and features twisted in pain would murmur: "can't--can't carry on." the duo (blicq and clarke), imperturbable and calm, had strong aversion to exertion in any form. the appearance of a n.c.o. requiring "four men for fatigue." sent the two flying headlong for the doorway with a great show of towels and soap. always in trouble, they always wriggled out. stumpy, also, too tired to slip away, too tired to be anything but a hindrance when they did put him on a job, but never too weary to eat a dinner not his own. but to them all, good, indifferent or bad, the battalion's name and record came first. to no unit, however famed, would they acknowledge superiority and every general who reviewed them was unable to repress appreciation of the outcome of this latent esprit de corps. they tackled every regiment in the brigade at football and defeated one and all, fought their way by sheer tenacity into the brigade cup final--and lost with good spirit. parades were few and light, sport compulsory. moral and health were excellent although the genial company of the leech-like post of active service--lice--began to irritate some few and to send creepy sensations down the spine of those who were still unblessed. the duo scrubbed each other daily in--a biscuit tin of water. there were baths of course! you marched down in twenties to where a "room" was screened from the eyes of those who were not there to see by a bordering of sacking--this served also to "keep out" a shrieking cold wind that played up and down your bare body with icy persistence, and finally with a spiteful gust whisked away your solitary towel to the skies and caused you to ponder how adam warmed himself in a snowstorm. to pass from this elaborate dressing-room to the actual torture-chamber necessitated a short walk outside--ugh! once inside the twenty spartans waited for the water to be turned on them from the long spray pipes. sometimes this water froze your marrow, but generally it scorched away the hair that should have been shaved off that morning. however, splashing and blindly soaping each other you would be half-way through the operations when steam was shut off with the order "clear out"--to make way for another twenty animals. thus, eyes clenched tight to omit soap-suds, into the open again, a slip in the mud, and, forgetting, abrupt opening of the eyes--how wonderfully expressive and voluminous is our english tongue. although i have heard a no more efficient flow of useful blasphemy than duport's vitriolic patois. rations were certainly plentiful--with the exception of bread, of which one man's issue would not choke a winkle. breakfast was usually bacon or cheese and chah (tea)--the beverage slightly tainted with sugar; although there is on record one memorable occasion of exceptional sweetness of the drink--attributed to the fact that cookie was startled by the shout of "raid on," and in went the whole bag--minus the quarter placed inside for himse--er, emergency. dinner, to-day, stew. to-morrow, stew, and the day after--stew! an awful white concoction called rice went with it. tea finds jam on the menu--on your clothes too, because of a struggle with someone over disputed possession of a pot that did not rightly belong to either. a 1 lb. jar is shared among six--when it is not sixteen. quantity and quality differ frequently. the variety (apple and plum) never. supper, rice. less said.... hendecourt proved a posh camp; memories of it and of the men who laughed the heavy days away are pleasant. the army, despite the grousings that rise steadily to tommy's lips, is a fine institution, and those who have emerged safely from the great undertaking cannot but look back with regretful pleasure upon those great days of the open, of bonne camaraderie, of willing sacrifice. nightly the 29th divisional troupe performed before an over-crowded house of the most appreciative audience in the world. a cinema also threw its ardent cowboy lovers and pig-tailed heroines upon a screen whose far distant days may have been spotless and white. tubby awaited outside the "stage-door" for an hour to interview tootsie (of the troupe) after the first night and found "she" wore army boots, trousers, and chewed plug. old theatre house of memory! there on sunday row on row of mute khaki forms bowed together in unspoken player or sang with quiet, earnest harmony the hymn that tells home every time on the rough warriors' heart: "holy father, in thy keeping ... hear our anxious prayer," etc. god, how they sang it! some knew, perhaps, what awaited. the short november days sent the mud-clogged lads into their huts with the last pale glimmer of a weakly sun. constructed of sloping corrugated iron, in which no outlet for fire-smoke had been cut, these huts were lined at the top with some substance of felt and through which the rain trickled into puddles and miniature lakes on the ground floor. clarke had adjusted a tin like a sword of damocles over his bed to catch the drops--and it certainly conveyed, after falling twice when full upon stumpy, an apprehension akin to that wrought by the weapon. over one of these puddles near--too near--his bed ginger was wont to sit with melancholy mien, a rifle held out before him and from the muzzle a string hanging over the water with a mess-tin attached. "wot's doin', gin?" "fishin'." "what for?" "me ticket!" (discharge). braziers were rampant in every company, swelling and overflowing throughout the entire hutments in belching clouds of noxious smoke that permeated an atmosphere impenetrable by human eyes with an odour of smouldering wood, empty milk-tins and tobacco. those nights! those nights of song and laughter, of anticipations, hope, and the yearning for life: of long-drawn-out confabs over the glowing embers of a red-hot brazier, the crimson glow shining upon faces that showed so little of aches, fears, longings, masked behind the curling smoke from screening pipes. silence fall oft-times upon the khaki figures clustered round the genial warmth. each man to his own dire thoughts ... home, wife, or girl. tucked within blankets, heads propped on hands, pipes and cigarettes going, they peered with unseeing eyes into the mad crackle of burning timber. softly would the melody of a song be hummed, caught up by chorus and wafted out into the indigo mystery of the night. quiet for a few minutes, an occasional snore and then sure as fate a last parting shot from the duo. no. 1: "no one knows." no. 2: "no--and the impossibility--" no. 1: "yes. yet they must. if not, how do they exist?" pause and a soft chuckle. no. 2: "of course they have. yet the agony--." curiosity overcoming the remainder a series of questions popped up. "what is impossible?", "why must who?", "what agony?" no. 1: "you see, no one knows?" exasperated chorus: "knows what?" no. 1: "why, if flies have toothache." and then oblivion claims into its own soundless peace the outstretched forms of rough warriors and removes them from grim reality into the passing realms of a fantastic dream--arcadia. mail days are pleasant. excited anticipation for your name as each parcel or letter is read out, dull disappointment if your issue is napoo. parcels. oxo cubes, of course. utilised because of adhesive qualities for throwing at a target as darts. café au lait, a useful preparation for spreading on bread in lieu of posie (jam) that has mysteriously evaporated. a pair of silk socks, purple with gold spots. will come in useful as a rifle rag. a long, wide woolly article resembling a cross between a scarf and a blanket ... do as a pillow. a large cake, two packets of chocolate and fifty fags. hum, won't go far among ten. a pot of jam--go fine on the cake or may tackle it with a spoon. and a brief note hidden away at the bottom--"for my boy." god, how it hurt. what surging memories of a mother's love, of a mother's eternal tender care, swarmed up mistily before the eyes. secretly, half-ashamedly, are such missives carefully put away. the mind vividly pictures the animated packing by willing hands in the humble homestead--a lump forces its way into the throat. but war is war and in it sentiment has no place. iii cambrai rehearsals november, 1917 uproar was rampant in one of d. company's huts. mingled laughter and arguments formed the base of a volume of sound materially assisted in high note effect by the banging of spoons on mess tins. "an' now listen agin," said tich, commanding and obtaining silence by turning over his "press", "some more exemptions. just listen to this 'ere summary. six months' renewable. six months 'ere again. an''ere's a poor blighter wots only got three months. wot are the tribunals doin' to give 'im so short a time before 'e goes to the cruel wars?" he paused to join in the ironical outburst that ensued and continued at the top of his lungs: "there are twenty cases 'ere an' eighteen of 'em 'as some more extensions. i ask you, boys, are they playin' fair to us at 'ome?" "no! no! no!" in mighty chorus. "but do we want them chaps out 'ere?" "no!" "they would disgrace the bat.?" "yes!" "becos they ain't got any guts in 'em?" "no!" one of the two guernsey scouts from headquarters pushed open the door and in the general pause said: "heard the latest?" "now, no funny games," tich ejaculated. "not at all. we're going up the line again." "oh, 'ell," said nabo, "wot for?" "stunt. another big push." "oh, 'ell," repeated nabo; "'ere, scout, goin' back to h.q.?" "yes." "then tell 'em i'm indisposed--ain't 'ad a long enough rest yet. an', 'ere, lets 'ave a fag. wot with that there news and my bad 'eart for war...." nothing is left to chance in the offensive movements undertaken by that unparalleled fighting mechanism disposed of in two words: british army. in following out the general scheme of perfecting every minor detail, the cambrai attack had more than its share of elaborate preparation. beyond the fact that a "push" was to be inaugurated upon an entirely new and experimental form of advance, nothing was disclosed even to the men. the utter importance of maintaining absolute secrecy of this meagre information was earnestly reiterated. the slightest inkling of the impending intentions escaping to fritz would have cast upon the troops engaged a disaster perhaps unequalled in the annuals of even this armaggedon. following customary procedure the offensive was rehearsed mile for mile even as in the actual undertaking; aeroplanes being allotted to divisions for scouting and observation. the whole cycle of operations outlined by the g.h.q. can be briefly summarised as follows: the entire movement of troops, guns, and tanks by night and to remain under cover from enemy 'planes during daylight. an abrupt massing on a nine-mile front of the engaging force during the night prior to launching of tanks and infantry. a furious bombardment would be opened by artillery at daybreak. three tanks per battalion moving forward would crush gaps in the enemy barbed wire through which advancing lines of infantry would pour into the fritz trenches. the forward movement throughout the day to be carried on in relays of three divisions, the final division attaining and digging in as its objective. the ten hundred, forming the place of honour on the left flank of the 29th division had to carry an objective situated, of all difficult places, on the crest of a long rise in the ground--nine wood. at brigade headquarters a huge map was built on the ground complete to the most minute of details. from aero photographs the entire area, confined to the activities of the 86th was plainly portrayed for inspection and explanation to the platoons. fritz trenches, wire, observation posts, lines of support and communication; the rise and fall of the ground; villages; were all emphasised upon until tommy became to a certain degree familiar with the ground over which fritz had to be bundled back five miles in one day. points where, possibly, a stubborn resistance might be offered were indicated and the advisability of avoiding open breaks in enemy wire constantly reiterated. (obviously, if openings are voluntarily left here and there in the second line of wire, to one cogent factor only can such procedure be attributed, i.e., men will for preference make in a body for a clear passage and machine guns trained from the rear into these breaches would account for a hundred or so casualties before the men realised a trap.) to merely undertake an offensive "on paper" only would be fatuous. actual rehearsal over country as similar as possible to the original has to be carried out; villages and towns having to be "imagined" on the training area in the very position they filled on the actual territory. tanks were to be used on a scale calculated to put the wind up whatever enemy units held that sector. approximately three hundred of these cumbersome but doughty caterpillars were to line up on a nine-mile frontage. they would be "first over the top"--in itself a life-saving factor that, had it been adopted earlier in the war, would have by a large percentage reduced the british casualty roll. the manner in which they would precede the infantry from zero (the hour at which the advance is timed to begin) was practised over an old stretch of trenches and wiring; infantry partaking in the manoeuvre. throughout the norman camp a stir of suppressed excitement and slightly apprehensive anticipation was apparent during the three days' training, in conjunction with the remainder of the 86th brigade, for the big stunt. they rapidly grasped, after a hitch during the first day, what was required of them, attaining on the completion of the rehearsals a strong confidence in their powers to carry through their schedule. they became conscious of an eagerness to try their mettle, to do something "off their own bat." at the end of each day the ten hundred swung in a long swaying column behind their band along the pavé roads homewards. company after company sending up defiant echoes with the marching rallies peculiar to the normans, they splashed noisily through the almost interconnected line of puddles. upright, fine, free fellows: the very cream of guernsey's manhood. at night they were well content, after a late dinner, to crouch around the glowing brazier and talk, while biffer surreptiously was wont to fry the bacon he had commandeered. his arch enemy--n.c.o.'s--invariably endeavoured to trap him. "ere, you, where'd you get that bacon?" "bacon?" biffer looked up with baby-like innocence. "'ad it sent--ain't 'alf got a scent, too." "oh, an' that piece yesterday was sent, too, i s'pose?" "yes, same animal. 'e's got pink eyes." "wot, the pig?" "course--think you get bacon off a canary? want a bit?" "well (mollified), only fat left, i s'pose?" "no--only rind. 'ere you are." iv moving up ten hundred men stood faintly outlined in the purple pall of a starless night. stripped to the very essentials of a battle--"fighting order" but carrying the valise on the shoulders and the haversack by the side. steel helmets, gas masks and one hundred and seventy rounds of ammunition per man; no overcoats; no blankets; simply the rough, furry wolf-skin jacket for protection o' nights. hoarse orders broke grotesquely on the damp air. "move to the right in fours ... right----!" by companies the normans moved away; glancing for the last time upon the dark bulk of old hendecourt. the undertaking had begun. they halted a few hours later in the semi-darkness of a siding where a great conglomeration of every corps stood leaning on rifles, awaiting instructions to board one of the grinding, jarring lines of trains that, shunting to and fro, emitted ghostly columns of white smoke high into the darkened heavens. the normans boarded their train, tumbling clumsily one into another over the dirty, evil-smelling floors of the cattle-trucks. striking of matches and smoking were forbidden ... a babel of confusion and curses ensued while they sorted themselves out. it was impossible to wreak vengeance on the man who inadvertently placed his boot in your eye ... to turn abruptly in his direction would bring some other lad's rifle in your teeth. sit tight and hold tight! the duo, with the scouts from other battalions, attached brigade headquarters, succeeded in forcing their way into a genuine railway carriage--trust them! almost immediately they were up to mischief. having scrounged a tin of pork and beans they wanted to cook it. and cook it they did, despite orders re lights. a foot of rag was wrapped around a candle stump, placed in a tin (this paraphernalia they carried everywhere) and lit. for twenty minutes the "maconichie" boiled, and they then blew out the smouldering grease-saturated rag. the carriage was fitted with fastened windows and a icor of smouldering candle-rag with no outlet! the occupants were literally gassed. coughing, spluttering, they almost choked. "phew," gasped clarke, waving at the fumes, "it's aw-aw-awful." the other partner of the duo could stand it no longer. grasping his rifle he pushed it through the window. crash! then he laughed. "anybody want, want any beans?" he chuckled. "eat it, phew, yer bloomin' self." "ugh, not now after that--er--aroma." he threw the tin through the broken pane and added piously, "hope it hits someone." peronne! to march after detraining during the morning along its deserted streets, to gaze on the devastation of its large buildings, sent the mind wandering over the past. peronne: this was the town from which fritz had retreated "according to plan"; this was the goal towards which the british had gazed undismayed through the black months of slow progress, infinite hardship, and fast-flowing blood. but to-day the khaki tread rang firm on its roads. they who had gone before had made easy the way, and you, who were carrying it on eastwards, ever eastward. the knowledge stirred something within you and you were glad. the ten hundred swung out of the "suburbs" up the long incline of mount st. quentin, travelled a few hundred yards along the crest and came to a halt near a line of tents. at no point in the sky was there any indication of enemy airmen, nor from the line did much rattle of distant guns disturb the quiet of the day. from the concussion of some far-off muffled explosion the earth trembled slightly; but these visitations, at lengthy intervals, caused little comment. from 12 to 4.30 p.m. sleep was compulsory. no man or n.c.o. was permitted to be seen outside his tent or hut until dusk fell, and with it the command to fall in for the long march northward to equancourt. along one perpetual straight road, lined on either side with endless rows of weird, sighing trees whose tops converged in faint outline against the sky at an ever distant point; along one continual rough surface of hard, slippery cobble paving an almost tail-less column of marching troops, rumbling artillery and jingling transport crawled on through the darkness. it went hard with the normans that night. night and the silence, the mystery. only the ring of many feet and the neigh of a startled horse. on, ever onward to the unknown that awaits. aye. tommy, worn, rugged, rough tommy, straining forward beneath the burden that was yours--how little others know how staunch and true beat that sturdy heart throbbing under its hard exterior. step by step; left, right, left; rigid and mechanical, controlled by a mind that ceased to act and fell prey to wild fancies. you could hear them: the cooling whispers of a sea upon your sarnia's shore ... dear little country! god's own isle! mental anguish and physical pain. and yet you came up--smiling. monday passed quietly at equancourt, although one or two fritzy shells bursting some few miles away with the unmistakeable kru-ump of his heavies set the brain working and conjured up memories. b. company, without the customary o.c. (captain hutchinson, one of the most popular officers among the men) of company-sergeant-major "tug" wilson (another splendid fellow) were temporarily under the command of a buff officer (chapman). a., c. and d. commands were unchanged. 13 platoon, so fictitiously unlucky(?), was probably the most "pally" combination in the battalion; both n.c.o.'s and men were on excellent terms--especially with sergt. t. allez, one of the finest and most courageous men in the ten hundred. lieut. f. arnold was in command--another good fellow. this platoon emerged with a very small percentage of casualties. equancourt was disliked from the moment the ten hundred made the disagreeable discovery that fatigues were rampant. men began to vanish in all directions. mahy, doing the glide from one quarter-master-sergeant (the q.m.s. is an individual who allots ten of you to a one lb. loaf, and who endeavours to convince you that your clothing issue must last for ever, and that you are far better rationed than you deserve. p.s.--we are officially informed that there are no q.m.s.'s among the angels!)--to resume, mahy did the gaby from one exasperated q.m.s. right into the yawning arms of another. an enormous box was instantaneously bundled on to his shoulders, nearly bending him double. "you'd better be careful with that little lot," the n.c.o. advised. "why?" with a gasp. "becos (drily) it's full of bombs." the hair crinkled upwards into the lad's steel helmet and he carried that box to its destination with all the lavish care and tenderness of a mother for her babe. placing it gingerly down and unable to overcome the strong trait of inquisitiveness latent in all soldiers, he forced up the lid and peeped upon--two heavy sets of large transport waggon implements! the march from equancourt up to the "jumping off" point of the advance was neither so long nor arduous as on the two previous nights. as mile after mile was reeled off the incessant thunder of guns ten or twelve miles northward became more and more distinct, but on the sector of the line towards which the miles of marching columns were heading not a sound disturbed the night from hour to hour. the rumble of that distant artillery mingled with the jingle of unseen harness and the pad, pad, of countless feet. hazy starlight faintly lit up row upon row of men, glinted dimly on brighter portions of the equipment and distinctly silhouetted each breath on the damp night air. a tense, silent march: nerves highly strung. a march to live long in memory. within five minutes of leaving the road for the downs there enveloped you that indefinable sense that a fighting area has been entered. nothing could be seen, heard or felt, yet the proximity of trenches and wire was frequently "scented," like the first approaches of a sea after a long march inland. brigade headquarters marched on--and with it the duo--to where a long line of duck-boards led into a line of wide trenches. the ten hundred came to a halt in the immediate rear, received the order to lie down--and waited. a night of wondrous calm and quiet. within one mile of a watchful foe and not a sound. once or twice a machine gun awoke wild echoes with brief spluttering bursts ... in silence more acute for the interruption hearts beat faster, hands tightened involuntarily about rifles. thus the young, full-blooded normans awaited their first fray. even as the mighty ragnar lodbrok and his fierce men in mail launched merciless onslaught with the breaking of day, so did sarnia's young warriors look eastward for the dawn. v cambrai offensive november 20th, 1917 the advance it was just after six in the morning of november 20, 1917, and the dew lay thick on the soil. men were quietly roused, rifles slung, and with fast tattooing pulse paused for orders. first wave "over" stamped feet impatiently in those interminable hours of waiting blended in what was only a few short minutes; an almost frenzy of anxiety to get through the waiting possessed them. then the tanks, faintly outlined forms in the grey light, moved ponderously forward. a nerve-straining silence held momentary sway. from point to point at a few yards' interval a milliard blinding flashes of dull crimson flames leapt from out the gloom like one gigantic sunset, casting sinister glares in ceaseless succession upon the heavy mist. roar upon roar, blending, echoing and re-echoing like unto the roll of countless mighty drums, throbbed in one great deafening crescendo. it was futile to count explosions: they all merged one into another. but words are fatuously inadequate and convey little. "stand by." your pipe is in your mouth, unlit, empty. you don't want to smoke, really, but still ... the eye glances along the line of strained white faces. someone must go under; still, it might not be you. anyhow, if it is, funk will make no difference, so--one wild scramble over the top, an almost imperceptible pause and then forward. a cry, a fall here or there, and then on again. as in a dream you find yourself still carrying on unhurt ... it's not so bad. the undertaking had commenced. the ten hundred moved forward grouped in artillery formation, c., d., and b. companies moving onward in that line from right to left; a. company and battalion headquarters followed in reserve. the staggering surprise of the british attack completely shattered the morale of what german elements were holding the sector. they surrendered in twenties to the oncoming tanks and rapidly advancing lines of infantry. hun artillery started into frenzied action by this phenomenal development commenced to hastily lob over an erratic series of shells. the normans, crossing a sunken road in column, fell again into correct formation on the higher ground, progressed a few hundred yards beyond what had an hour before constituted the fritz front line, and halted. four light shells burst around and about the reserve company; no one stopped anything. one piece of iron crashed into a boulder near le page's foot. he sprang a yard into the air and nearly put two men out of mess with his bayonet. in the hot argument that ensued they almost forgot that there was a war on and that the advance was moving on without them. a lad with half a leg hanging and placed by two bearers on a stretcher, rose from a lying posture as the royal guernseys passed. "'ere, guernseys," he hailed, "i was with you at canterbury--buffs. jus' got in the way of a blighty. anybody got a fag?" it was supplied and the party moved on. about to descend into the sunken road the bearers ducked to that fatal shell whine ... too late. three blood-soaked figures were visible through the lifting-smoke stretched inert on the ground. "if only 'e 'adn't stopped," muttered several hoarsely. life is chance! the first great onslaught of artillery fire slackened towards mid-day, sharper crack of rifles and wicked splutter of machine guns becoming for the first time noticeable. enemy shells became fewer and fewer, his power of resistance--weak from the opening--deteriorated to little more than a rout. the prisoners were swelling an already long roll ... nine or ten thousand on the nine-mile front. ribecourt, on the normans' front, had fallen after a brief skirmish, the german last line of defence reached and artillery support was still far to the rear when the ten hundred, passing through the division ahead, took upon their own shoulders the responsibility to carry the push through its last two miles and to force the capitulation of nine wood, now plainly visible at the top of the next long incline. they went for it, hell for leather, in a long line of skirmishers. their rifles cracked with the rapidity that tells the marksmen--and they could shoot. but fritz would not have any. they did not like (those who had time to look back on their record sprint) the nasty gleam of those norman bayonets. it was a soft thing; they moved onwards unchecked even as during the rehearsal. tanks ahead reached the hill-crest and stood black and ugly against the sky; further to the right one was burning with high leaping flames. the normans panted up the slope, poured into the two quarries in one bloodthirsty rush to find "nothing doing," scrambled out again, and reaching the wood's edge calmly pushed their way through with all the phlegm of veterans to their objective some thirty yards beyond the last row of trees and commenced to dig in. someone spotted a sniper post, coolly stretched himself out on the ground, muttered: "three hundred yards," and squinted along the sights. ping, ping ... two bodies fell limp from a platform--up a leafy tree. the private slowly cut two notches on his rifle-butt. two black, charred figures grinned hideously from out of the smouldering remains of a british aeroplane as the two guernsey brigade scouts hastened back to their headquarters, to report the objective carried with only ten casualties. away by the narrow bridge above marcoing one living and three dead machine gunners were lying in a mangled heap. still further back a shattered lad, unable to move, stretched out right in the track of an oncoming tank, shrieked frenziedly for succour ... then abrupt silence as of a whistle shut off even while the eyes were rivetted fascinated on the inexorable crushing machine. a ghastly heap of tangled, mutilated bodies, unrecognisable as such except by the grey german uniform, were lying beneath a tank blown in by a shell--the crew huddled inside in a gruesome mass. at the bottom of a hollow a grey-cloaked figure was bunched in that strange posture bearing the hall-mark of fast approaching death. his dull eyes filled with terror at the sound of my footsteps ... strange ingrained knowledge of the hunnish method of dealing with similar cases pervaded his mind. "it is--finish," he whispered pitifully in bad english. "where are you hit?" he shook his head slowly. "it is finish," he reiterated weakly. "want anything--any water?" "no." a battery of artillery rumbled noisily down the adjacent roadway. his eyes brightened. "you never win," he muttered, defiance strong in his tone. but one glance took in those stoic mounted britishers, five miles deep in the enemy lines, yet unexcited, unmoved. thus would they fall back thirty leagues if need be, phlegmatic and unconcerned--knowing not when defeated and therefore never beaten. "i think we will if--"; but life had passed from out the other's tired body. a rush of pity surged over one on looking into the pale boyish face: eighteen, perhaps nineteen. little grey, bloodstained german warrior in the first flush of youth: honour to you for the life you gave your fatherland; for the staunch patriotism so high in your breast. may the dawn into which you were ushered while a foe watched your passing have great compensation. near the unscarred crucifix a diminutive khaki figure, an inch or so shorter than his rifle with bayonet fixed, stood peering haughtily from beneath a steel helmet, several sizes too large, balanced on his ears. "'allo, guernsey," he greeted, "what price my tame outangs?" indicating a dozen grubby prisoners, "this one yere swallowed 'is false teeth wiv fright an' this porker yere 'as got 'is knees out of joint wiv shaking." "why are they holding up their----?" "oh, becos i cut the braces. even a prisoner won't run away if his trousers are coming down. nar then, jerry--march. no comprene? pushey alongay roadie pour tootsie--see?" he, fag-end in mouth, helmet far on the back of his head, rifle slung and hands in pocket, swaggered along behind his "outangs" on their journey to the cages. in marcoing we of brigade established comfortable quarters with the plentiful material fritz had good naturedly (?) left behind for the purpose. his blankets when you have none of your own are a decided advantage. his jam, butter and potatoes were excellent eating, his spring beds utilised especially for two german staff officers--made a delightful sofa for two dirty, unshaven and grinning tommies. but his bread! ye saints, the nightmare of that one rancid mouthful, not three times the customary ration of rum could rinse out the flavour: martin, however, was of the opinion that another pint would do much to save his life, and on being refused sadly observed that he could not believe anyone could be so heartless.... * * * * * drizzle, light during the afternoon, increased to a moderate downpour as the normans were digging, not the elaborate sandbagged trenches so very familiar at home (and but little elsewhere), but mere shallow excavations providing just sufficient cover for the body. an interesting operation provided with a little mild excitement in the form of enemy snipers, who, however, greatly assisted in the rapid and hurried completion of the work. (n.b.--this undertaking in training required half a morning!) stumpy crawled up and down the line for a yard or two in the vague hope that someone might have made a hole too large; nothing doing, he started on one himself, grumbling audibly. "that's it ... poor tommy. making a 'ole," pessimistically, "diggin' a grave for his bloomin' self." normans gaze westward where the vague grey earth meets the overcast sky. five miles deep in less than twelve hours. the thrill of it--and what you have you will hold. with the coming of the night came the reaction. wild excitement and vim of victorious advance gave way for calm reflection and with it the certain knowledge of counter-attack. they realised abruptly that they were physically and mentally worn, the body clamoured madly for food and drink, the mind for rest and sleep. rain trickled incessantly down each man's face and glistened in dusty beads upon foreheads, clothing at last gave way to complete saturation, and water, collecting in pools until over ankle deep, oozed slushily in and out of the eyelet holes. cold rapidly fastened its grip; dull agony pervaded the entire being until nothing more than a mechanical row of figures staring tiredly out upon no man's land, grasping rust-flaked rifles in numb, stiff hands. thinking not, caring not, moving not--only that uncertain stare into the void. and over all the night, the wild shrieking of lost spirits in the trees, the sharp crack of an occasional rifle or fitful bursts from the poorly-timed enemy shrapnel. patrols were sent out into no man's land, groped blindly to and fro for two hours and returned in the very last stage of complete exhaustion to report "all clear." simple, is it not, to go on patrol from a line you cannot see towards another line you also cannot see ... sometimes you lost touch with the others and gazed round into the blackness with that primordial fear of the unknown inspired by the night. lost! god, it nearly unmans you. with fast-thumping heart you hear the approach of guttural hun voices ... down and quiet. at last calm thinking points out that yon burning house is in your own lines. make for it and all is well. aye. scouts, does the pulse quicken even now? what is the thin veneer of a mere nine hundred years semi-civilisation? two thousand years before the conquest the fierce warrior northmen lived by the might of the halbert, fighters one and all from the days when the war-inspired mother croned of the battle-axe to her babe. and in the normans was that norse spirit dormant; but one night of such hardship as yet undreamt of had sufficed for an awakening. in the dawn they looked out with nearly bloodshot eyes towards the german front. he would counter-attack, would he? let him come! he came! they poured one long volley into the long-coated line. it wavered, broke, thinned. at the junction with the middlesex an englishman gazed in unfeigned astonishment at the ugly, set features of his norman companion. "but," he said, "they might have wanted to be prisoners." "oh." ozanne grunted, "don't want none," and squinting down the sights let loose another trio. "this," he added, "is the great undertaking." "yes, well?" "i am the undertaker. for my job ... must 'ave bodies ... and i," grimly, "i'm getting 'em." the other shuddered slightly. war is war, but these wild unkempt men of a strange tongue were something he could not quite grasp. anyhow, they knew how to fight. that is all that matters. duggie le page went into no-man's land and pluckily brought in a wounded n.c.o. from one of the mounted regiments, but too late to save a life fast nearing its ebb. a weakly sun crept up from amid thick grey clouds and shone wanly on the mud-spattered creatures lying each in his own water-logged trough. hour followed hour without further sign of hostile movement from the enemy--nothing could be seen of him, and had the cavalry got through the attack could have been continued and cambrai taken. casualties (the supreme sacrifice in two instances) began to trickle away from the norman ranks, the majority from the attention of a sniper in the long grass who held on alone with plucky audacity. unfortunately for his own welfare he was over-confident, exposed himself too long; and ten rifles cracked spitefully--all who fired hotly claiming the right to a notch. before mid-day it became apparent that fritz had neither the heart nor the troops for launching a counter-attack on a scale large enough to make a definite impression on the newly-won area. his "strafing" was fitful, poorly sighted, and of small calibre. here and there he still had the use of a machine gun or two and had concentrated a number of men at noyelles. this village was attacked by a company of the royal fusiliers; fought for desperately in one brief, mad mêlée, during which blood ran freely, but remaining in the hands of the british, formed the nearest point in the line to cambrai. at nine wood all was quiet--except for the unearthly sounds emanating from the nostrils of one tich sleeping in the reserve troughs with one side of his features buried in an inch of brown mud. desultory conversation came down from the wide trough "old man casey" had dug and had adorned with an empty whisky bottle found in the grass. he was looking at it lovingly where it stood mouth downwards: for the obvious reason, he observed, that its spirits were like his own--all run out. the ten hundred were tired, dead-beat. marching all sunday night, fatigue for hours on monday, again marching in the night. finally the attack and its holding ... eyes were heavy with ache for sleep. between eight and nine they were relieved, stumbled away from the wood until feet rang noisily on the rough surface of a sunken road winding marcoing-wards. near a side road a number of houses were used as billet--marcoing was untouched by shells on that date--and into these buildings ten hundred unshaven, unwashed, worn-out normans entered slowly, found corners for the long-wished-for rest and threw down equipment and packs. some jerked off boots, some faked up pillows, but the majority turned on one side, head on valise, and fell straightway into an oblivion that nothing could disturb. lying across a doorway, his boots and equipment still on, a veritable boy breathed regularly in the same attitude into which he had sunk the moment he had passed inside. his pale, tired face was dimly visible in the hazy starlight and one wondered at the peaceful serenity. the last boot clattered loudly on the floor, the last rattle of a rifle placed by the owner's side, the last long-drawn sigh of relief ... silence. above them all woden wove the magic spell oblivion, the rest of the war-worn warrior. daybreak had long since passed and still no sound of movement from the rows of tangled sleeping men. tangle! they were lying in all directions and at every angle; it was impossible to define whose feet were whose or what had become of the chest and head of a pair of long legs leading from a jumbled heap. duport had his feet fast in the heel of someone untraceable further than the knee--the first-named had munchers of the star-like (removable) variety. no. 2, unfortunately, struck out in his sleep, awakening the other to the fact that his teeth were promenading about at the top of his throat. he struggled to a sitting posture with a gasp, felt frenziedly for his "adjustables" and looked round upon the mixture of dirty, frowsy figures. he stirred nobby into wakefulness by the simple expedient of tickling him beneath the chin with a grimy big toe protruding from a rent in an obsolete and far from odourless sock. "'ere," he said, "got any change." "any wha'," sleepily, "any, phew, wot a bloomin' niff. put them blessed feet of your out of the winder. change, wot of?" "this yere trouser button." "funny, ain't it, like your face? 'it ole wiffles there over the 'ead wid your rifle an' tell 'im breakfus' is up." this kindly action having succeeded, the victim looked around. "breakfus', where? what is it?" "oh, tin of brasso; what d'you expect, 'am an' eggs or a filleted sausage." vi marcoing--masnieres the ten hundred awoke, gazed about and laughed until the echoes rang from rafter to rafter as the eye took in each black-featured, bearded and grubby individual. stumpy was requested to "leave that foot of fungus on his face, as it hid what for weeks had been an infliction," and to which he cuttingly replied that the other gentleman had features that would make a bomb burst. but there could be detected in these rallies an undercurrent of strong mutual respect, of which they had all hitherto had no cognisance. they were each one intensely proud of what had been so efficiently carried out; although very little war was spoken they were keenly alive to the fact that personally and collectively the ten hundred had opened the innings with an abundance of "runs" as far as the enemy was concerned. rations came up fairly regularly in the advanced areas unless the ration-party becomes lost, drops a portion or makes an appointment with a 9.2. there is a constant daily issue of hard-wearing substance camouflaged as "biscuit," intended originally for the heel of concrete ships and for bomb-proof blockhouses. it can be further utilised as a body-shield, for paving roadways, or with the aid of a hammer and three chisels (why three? in case the first two break) this "biscuit" could be, and was, eaten. tea and sugar, enclosed in one tin, were soaked in water: boiled over a small round tin of a form of solidified paraffin, set alight beneath the mess tin. then bacon--your issue might be red--and it might not. perhaps the faintest suspicion of lean fringed it or you might moodily survey a square inch of fat--if there was not a buckshee inch of rind. the flowing locks of hair with which this bacon was sometimes adorned has convinced one that a number of farmers fatten their porkers on "thatcho"--it could be combed with a fork! bully beef is, ugh! it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be ... never again. bread! "something attempted, someone done, a one-pound loaf among twenty-one." had the biscuit been again as hard the famished ten hundred would have got their teeth deep into it. hunger. a mad craving for food that cannot be swallowed, because of a dry stickiness in the mouth a tongue that somehow would not function; a moisture that would not come. that tea! warm, refreshing, life-inspiring liquid. drink, to drink long and thirstily ... the relief, the new vitality. food vanishes with abnormal rapidity, every crumb, however minute, is carefully searched for, gathered into the hand and eaten. and afterwards you are still hungry, still thirsty. the "schemers" slipped away quietly from the billets, crossed into the main thoroughfare and commenced a scrounging expedition for grub. ("scrounging," an exciting operation whereby the required article is obtained by any means otherwise than legal.) winterflood, mace and the duo found their way by instinct born of experience to an advanced dressing station where buckshee tea was being doled out. cups were not to be had, a milk can having to deputise in three instances while the fourth dug his features deep into a foot long tin with a quarter-inch layer of tea. then fritz dropped a shell, kru-ump, clean into the centre of the courtyard. the jar caused a pint of the tea to run caressingly down two tunics then again the genial enemy sent over another. si-izz-krump! one of the four scroungers grunted. "boo--want, want any more tea?"--chuckling. they didn't! a third, a fourth, and a fifth followed. men looked significantly at each other. "bringin' his guns up." "yes--heavy stuff, too." "be as hot as hades round 'ere soon." it was. hun artillery were adepts at "shooting off the map" (e.g., calculating the angle of elevation for concentration on a certain spot by means of a map), and began to drop near the roadways and cross-roads a series of heavy calibre shells. here and there, as his guns went searching across the town, a house crumbled under with a grinding, spluttering crash. hun aeroplanes, also, made an unpleasant announcement of their presence above marcoing, directing their artillery fire upon a number of points. our brigade headquarters were situated, of all unhealthy spots, in a house the last of a row culminating at a four-cross-road. phew--and he dropped one on it and got five of us. wilshire (royal fusiliers) came in for a fearful gash, ten or twelve inches long and three wide, right across the spine. conscious, but paralysed, he looked round on us with a piteous, hopeless appeal for succour in his eyes and made wild, inarticulate sounds for water. one of the signals (r.e.) fell face downward on the floor in a widening pool of his own blood, one part of his face blown away. poor laddies, full of youth, vim, life--cursed artillery from your far-off safety! aye, hands clench; if ever our chance comes.... he played on marcoing throughout the night, inflicted a few light casualties on the normans, deprived a few more house of rafters, and ploughed an occasional portion of the road. one wondered grimly on looking up at a thin slate roof what protection it would form against a "heavy," and into how many unrecognisable fragments your person would be dispersed should he land one direct on you. close your eyes and sleep; then if he does plump one in, you won't worry much about it. we seemed to have no 'planes of our own to interfere with fritz's evening gambols, nor were there any archie guns in the sector to give the hun aviators something with which to amuse themselves. coloured cavarly had ridden in, out and around marcoing throughout the day, but apparently were not going through. the advance was ended and there was every indication of establishing this new line for the quieter period of winter. the normans, with the 80th brigade, moved in the evening dusk out from marcoing to masnières--a town that constituted almost the apex of the salient formed by the drive. a strange march, although a mere couple of miles or so, in that throughout the entire line of companies there could be sensed some indefinable presentiment of a something to be feared. high above the direct line of march could be discerned the black puffs of enemy timed shrapnel bursting in the air. and you had to pass through it--it was inconceivable that everyone could get through unharmed. again, it might not be you. the egotism of unconscious thought; the indisputable truth of darwin's "will to life." at rues vertes the battalion halted. the nerves were highly strung, men gazed about with slight shudders as one is wont to do in the midst of weird ghost stories when someone comes softly, unexpectedly down the darkened stairs. what was the unshakeable phenomenon? was it the moaning of a lost wind in the dark woods that reacted so upon that rudimentary, instinctive fear of the unknown, the night; inherited from the primitive man who watched trembling throughout the wakeful hours when fear was his sole companion? "i--i don't fancy this," tich whispered hoarsely, "it puts a feelin' of death on me." fatal prophecy! the ten hundred carried on, crossed a swampy field, and moving up nearer the line, filed once again into the dismal occupation of trenches newly dug, affording inadequate cover and protected by wire that would have to be raised by their own efforts. winter was already getting a grip on the land, nights were cruelly cold and days but little better. and this first night at masnières was frequented with that sensation of ill-omen pervading the minds of many who felt--as tich had said--somehow that their days were drawing to a close. they would lie unmoving for an hour obsessed by their thoughts; the brain flying with its lightning rapidity from picture to picture resurrected from a happy past. in words would some communicate their apprehensions. "i feel--rotten to-night. something's got on my nerves...." but the rum ration soon soared the depressed spirits. man is prey to his inherited instincts. even tich recovered his nerve. "i only felt like that once before," he said, "that's when i was spliced." "wot, frightened of something?" "yes, and," gloomily in abrupt relapse, "it came right, too." the cherubic tones of stumpy emanated from somewhere. "wot i say is, respect a man's principles. any teetotalers about yere wot wants to find a 'appy 'ome for their rum ration? wot i say is, respe--yes, yere i am, old son, pass the sinful liquor over." half an hour later he warbled a jumbled melody: "in ari--arizona. it's there a girl in ari--ari...." vii holding the line masnieres the night was far more lively than any preceding. fritz trench mortar batteries sending over a series of particularly nastily ranged shells. this is a type of shell that can be heard coming from far in the air and its flight, by an acute observer, can be gauged to within a dozen yards or so of the point of impact with the earth. situated right up in the forward line this dangerous little weapon, at a range of one thousand or less (according to distance between opposing lines) yards, is fired at an almost perpendicular elevation and therefore descends again in approximately a direct line into the trenches: this factor naturally increases its probability of getting into the narrow excavation where a long-range shell at a more acute angle would merely dig itself into the parapet. and the havoc among human bodies confined within a small area that this small shell creates is conceivable only by those who have been of a party devastated by such a visitation. it must be borne in mind that three men can be almost obliterated by an explosion while the fourth may pick himself up dazedly, white and shaken, but unscathed. take it as a concrete fact that any man, however courageous, who comes close enough into contact with a shell to be conscious of its hot breath on his face and to be violently thrown by its concussion, will regain his feet with shaken nerves to a degree necessitating half-hour or more before restoration to normal. some few never recover--hence the term "shell shock." there are tales of iron men who are unaffected by a dozen such experiences--perhaps! the writer was blown clean through an open door in marcoing and had difficulty in keeping his hand steady afterwards to light a pipe--but he does not consider himself particularly brave. quite the reverse. i could get round a corner with more rapidity than any man in the battalion if a shell came my way. masnières, if external and internal appearances of buildings is a criterion of financial status, must have been peopled by a moderately wealthy class. in fairness to fritz it must be granted that in three years' occupation he had not purloined to any large extent from the larger houses--with the exception perhaps of a few dozen clocks, a piano or two, and a few similar articles. tho cause of this may, of course, be found in the knowledge that right up and during the british attack all these towns--marcoing, noyelles and masnières--unvisited by shell fire, were still occupied by their owners. coming up from where they had hidden trembling in their cellars during our advance, they were immediately advised to go "down the line," and in accordance treked away from their old homes with what few personal belongings they could take with them. the road from masnières to marcoing was strewn with the pitiful remnants of lost bundles, which, unable to carry further, sobbing women had cast down by the wayside. they had crowded in tearful, grateful groups around a few of the guernsey and other battalions. young and old. old! bent of shoulder, white-haired old dames; from whose kindly care-lined faces grateful tears were fast flowing, poured out volumes of thanks to the normans in their mother tongue. upon old backs that had long since earned repose were bundles, sad little bundles, tied up in red handkerchiefs. ambulances were used for the conveyance of the old and spent to safety zones. rough, big britishers picked up the frail old frames in muscular arms, carried them with infinite gentleness to the ambulance and esconsed them securely there. "'ow's that, mother. a bit of all right, eh?" and the ready tears would course again down the old withered cheeks; words would not come; she could only grasp tightly on the firm young hand. how that lump would rise in the throat; how one fought to appear unconcerned. big, awkward phlegmatic britishers; unhappy beneath all this honouring--it makes a man feel such a bally goat. thus the people returned to france, while on the ground near by the still figures smiled serenely at the sky. perhaps they knew! renouf, a plucky, good-humoured private, walked down just afterwards with the blood dripping from his side. the ensuing week, during which the ten hundred partook in wiring off the sector, completion of the poorly-dug trench system, and kindred work, was ardous not only in the physical sense, but from the constantly increasing attention of hun airmen, artillery, and machine guns. casualties increased, and of them death claimed a singularly high proportion, one unfortunate lewis-gun team coming in for a welter that shattered practically every man and ended two young lives in a fearful state of dismemberment. wiring constitutes in itself an operation of fatal possibilities. it has to be constructed at night, without sound; but posts have to be driven into the earth; someone will inevitably slip, accompanied by a loud clatter. then--ping, ping, ping!!! a hundred rounds fly whining through the night from a fritz machine-gun. the utter wretchedness of that wiring; the sickening knowledge that any moment a trail of bullets may spring without warning at you--and if one machine-gun shot gets you, another five will be somewhere in your body before you reach the turf. it appears an impossibility to carry on alive in such an undertaking from night to night; but still you do it. it is funny--afterwards. robin hated it, after falling and introducing twenty barbs to that portion of him utilised usually in a chair; he had to reline a little to one side for a couple of days. then blood poisoning set in, he reported "sick," and was sent down the line as a casualty. "of all bloomin' luck." stumpy growled; "'ere's me wots fallen down two shell 'oles and nearly twisted me bloomin' neck, been knocked over by a shell wot capsized all my rum issue--an' not a sign of a blighty one." "it's a pity you didn't," le huray observed. "wot?" "twist yer bloomin' neck." "look 'ere, my lad, if i comes over there i'll twist yer tongue and tie it up behind yer 'ead, an' it wont be a blighty yer'll 'ave--no, it'll be a blooming' corfin." "shut yer row, the two of you," casey shouted, "yer like a couple wots been married a year, chewin' each others 'ead orf. come yere an' give me a 'and, stumpy." and he turned again to the task of clearing a layer of mud from his rifle bolt with a grimy piece of rag an inch square. there is a refreshing originality (sic) in the al fresco meals partaken of in the fresh open air, in a comfortable trench--so comfortable that legs are twelve inches too long, knees in the way of your chin, and somebody's boots making doormats of your tiny bit of cheese. water and tea--when you get it--has a most uncommon flavour of petrol due to being transported in petrol cans. stumpy was of the opinion that the war office should be advised to utilise rum jars instead. fritz has a gentlemanly knack of dropping a shell near you and depositing a mighty chunk of black filth in the very midst of your grub. resultant language unprintable. slight falls of snow began to take place, the wind increased and nights in the trenches became one long vista of drawn-out agony. hands and feet froze; maintain circulation was an absolute physical impossibility: but it had to be faced through the long, over long, hours of waiting, and there was no alternative, no remedy. you suffered, royal guernseys, men of a warm, sunny isle, who had not hitherto known the harsh winter of miles inland spots. but you stuck it well, rifle grasped in a hand gone stiff, face cut and blistered from the fierce wind; feet aching with inconceivable agony. gas, sent over in shells, made an unpleasant addition to the already numerous "attractions" of the picnic. there is in this form of gas two factors that materially assist in bringing about casualties. firstly, this type of shell cannot usually be distinguished from a "dud" and therefore alarm is rarely given until three or four of these shells have landed, by which time, if the wind is in your direction, the gas is on you. secondly, men are careless: "oh, the wind won't blow it this way ... might only be a 'dud,' too." men regard and withstand all this hardship with varying moral. there are a few who sadly collapse before the onslaught of adverse circumstances, who give way without a fight to nervous prostration, and who are subject at times to wild spasms of uncontrolable trembling, finally going down the line with a form of shell-shock altogether distinct to shock from violent concussion. some are stoic, hanging on doggedly; characteristic of the quiet man from tiny sark, who, failing to understand the why and wherefore of their presence in this hell and yet individually conscious of a sacred duty to carry on, gave a constant example of philosophic acceptance of life as it was that indicated no lack of courage. of very similar psychological tendency were the men from alderney--a fine, physically, body of lads, if short--and from the more remote portions of guernsey. the town men were adept growlers, found something funny in everything and calmly palmed off all the arduous tasks upon the good-natured but less sly countrymen. it should be recalled, however, that a large percentage of these men were "old soldiers," had seen service at guillemont with the royal irish, and were therefore au courant with every form of deep scheming. the greater portion of the remnants of guernsey's volunteer companies in the royal irish had after their first casualty been drafted into the ten hundred, a large proportion receiving--and rightly--promotion. they were fine types, born fighters, born soldiers, and, some of them, born schemers. it would be futile to endeavour to convey that nowhere in the ten hundred were found men in whom a white streak was obviously apparent. white of face and faint of heart; the first to avoid any undertaking where their skin was endangered: crouched far below the parapet, and who at the least indication of enemy activity gazed frenziedly rearward at the nearest line for a headlong retreat. one in perhaps every hundred. fear, the instinct to guard life; the warning of danger; the all-absorbing sense of primitive ancestors who have handed down an almost uncontrollable fear of the unknown, indelibly imprinted upon the brain and imbibed into the very blood from centuries of fearful watch upon the death that came out of the darkness. the fear of death overcome, there grasps the young warrior in a sudden frenzy the revelation that in some critical moment he "might funk it." there lies the crux of it. afraid that he might be afraid and bring upon him from the lips of those whose opinions he values most the fatal slur "coward." for death is far better than that those men who have placed upon you--and you upon them--the implicit reliance of man for man, should find you wanting in the test and pass sentence upon you that a lifetime regret could not one whit abate. two hundred, perhaps three hundred, yards from the front line a fritz blockhouse (a concrete, more or less shell-proof fortress, impervious to rifle and machine gun fire, utilised on a large scale by the germans and garrisoned with machine guns) held an advantageous position bearing on the lines of communication leading up from masnières, thereby playing pretty havoc upon ration parties and all movement within focus of the enemy machine-gunners. it had to be taken, without artillery support. the ten hundred were nearly let in for the job, but owing to alteration of date the lancashire fusiliers had the onus upon them. surprise was the great deciding factor. it failed! creeping over through the night one half of the journey was accomplished ... in one piercing whine of spiteful machine-gun fire fritz almost wiped out the first wave. for an hour the british tried again and again with constantly refilling gaps, while upon them was turned every german machine gun in the area. from half a mile away the creeping line of advance could be gauged by the tone of firing. higher, higher, in one mad high-pitched shriek, ten thousand shots in one minute from twenty or more enemy machine-guns sang and hummed in the inky pall. the high key lowered; the mind pictured the khaki line retreating, reforming--forward again. then up again the shrill staccato; line drawing nearer. higher, faster, louder the satanic scream of lead. higher, still higher! the head throbbed, beads glistened on the brow--surely the climax was reached. and then it lowered--failed again. a minor operation, of no importance to official report! in a field near brigade headquarters an unfortunate cow had investigated the explosive powers of a 9.2, with the result that it no longer had to waste its days chewing the cud. we cut away steaks by bringing the bayonet into service, but had no fat in which to fry the savoury article. the more tender portions were eaten raw--we were hungry--and the remainder fried with water and a tot of rum. a rum steak--it was "rum," inflicted us with gumboils for a week. some of the cheese now being issued found its way up without a ration party and upon approaching brigade caused a false alarm of gas to be sounded. it has been found effective in poisoning lice. this little adherent is now in dozens upon every other fellow. folk at home have a peculiar tendency for sending out powders, for the entertainment of these pests, upon which they wax fat: dying sometimes of constipation. the mail had arrived on the thursday night (november 28th) that the ten hundred came out of the line for the last time. the division will move, out on the morrow after nearly two weeks' marching and fighting. casualties had increased: the lanes, and royal fusiliers numbering but little over 500 men. (they entered the action about 700 strong.) the normans had lost between forty and fifty, inclusive of several supreme sacrifices. muray had one eye blown out by shrapnel from a trench mortar without losing consciousness. a draft should have joined the battalion, but halted for the night in rue vertes, coming in for a bout of shelling that put the wind up the entire party, with inflicting much bodily harm. a strange non-appearance of british 'planes has caused comment, nor did there appear to be any heavy guns remaining on the sector apart from such artillery that forms a brigade complement. fritz, on the other hand, maintained uncomfortable concentration upon the towns and roads with a large number of guns brought up from somewhere (lille--where an army corps had been awaiting transfer to italy). the number of gas shells indicates that his supply in this direction is unlimited, for this type comes over regularly day and night. he concentrated, too, upon the canal lock in the probable vague hope of flooding the district. his shells fell by the scores around, above, short of and beyond the objective, everywhere except, by extraordinary bad luck, upon it. viii november 30th-december 1st, 1917 german onslaught 4.30 a.m., friday, november 30th.--quiet, comparative quiet everywhere. gas shells came over with an ever increasing frequency, but men slept on without masks. a shell, heavy, unmistakably from a huge howitzer, crashed with a mighty uproar into a small house and demolished it at a stroke. then another, and another, and still another ... phew, what was he "searching" for? from the doorway of brigade headquarters i looked into the night and listened to the whistle of shells passing overhead from eastward into our lines. our own artillery was silent. no sound came from our near infantry lines, not the crack of a rifle, not the splutter of a machine-gun. again the dull drone of the heavy stuff--the practised ear could gauge its fall, and i retreated a few yards into the passage. the courtyard outside caught it, and the entire chateau trembled violently at the concussion. but why, why these big guns? another landed in the yard, followed by an unearthly tinkle of falling glass. someone ran in from the gateway with a headlong rush, gained the passage and paused. "phew," excitedly, "what the devil is fritz up to? heaviest shells on this front." "yes. might be coming over." "hardly." "why these heavies?" "dunno. he's shelling along the whole line--good god," in a shout, "look at that chap there ... it, oh, my god, it's got him ... did you, did you, see that?" a heavy had whined into the yard just as a runner essayed a blind rush. nothing was left. nausea, a slight dizziness enveloped us. "what," he asked hoarsely, "what is this place?" "86th brigade." "i want the guernseys." "in the catacombs. the road up on the right." he walked out on to the steps, stared intently into the night--in a flash we both sensed death. he ran down the flight: "good-night." he was a death casualty that night, and we had both known it. presentiment of looming danger was pregnant, became accentuated with the increase of heavy shelling falling from three angles: from directly overhead, from the right rear flank and left rear. it all culminated before dawn into a barrage on our lines, shells raining in on every acre by the dozens. from the top of the chateau (it was built on a hill) with the coming of day, wave upon wave of grey-coated infantry could be discerned through the glasses. it was impossible to estimate their number, line followed line in such rapid sequence that the eye was bewildered. they were up against the 29th. the division wiped out, not partially but completely, row after row. rifles and machine-guns mingled in hasty chorus, incessant, rapid, accurate. fritz fell back. the glasses swept over to the right: the heart gave one wild leap of anxiety. the division on the right had to face an advance it was unable to stem, a first line had fallen and a bunch of khaki figures were being hurried away into the german rear. beneath pressure too heavy the line gave, retired rapidly, and the 29th's flank was exposed at a mere half-mile's distance. a call was given for a guernsey scout ... from the passage an inferno of shells were visible bursting every few yards, instantaneously the mind formed: "impossible to go through alive." one wild frenzied run across the vibrating yard, hearing everywhere the thunderous bursts, fumes fouling the nostrils, breath coming and going in gasps; running like hades, bent almost double: any second the singing pieces of shrapnel flying past will get you. into the brigade headquarters with a wild laugh! you're through, but you have got to get back. in response to that message the ten hundred turned out. they swung out into masnières' cobbled hill, rifles slung, and marched with all the nonchalance in the world towards the bridge, cigarettes and pipes going, laughing and joking--thus have i a hundred times watched them go on parade. that march, a classic; let it go down into history as an emblem of the old ten hundred. their last march together, their last foot chorus on the long trails. square of shoulder, upright, i see even now those figures that have long since been still. every yard a man crumpled up, any yard it might be you. and they laughed and smoked, went forth to call "halt!" to those waves of grey, advancing some hundred yards away, as if they had a hundred lives to give. let coming generations marvel. the farewell march of the first ten hundred. before the sun had reached its noon many had crossed the groat divide and passed the portals of valhalla to swell the throng of their viking forefathers. the enemy advance had continued with remarkable rapidity towards rues vertes and marcoing. rear brigade headquarters, in rues vertes, or at least above that village, had been seized, and the r.e.'s, a portion of the n.c.o. staff, all rations and ammunition captured. a dressing station filled with r.a.m.c. and wounded was taken, but frit acted honourably, placed a sentry over the entrance and allowed the red cross men to carry on with their work. from marcoing the 88th brigade formed a line running towards masnières, and with the dull, wicked bayonet went out to meet the grey forces. here and there bayonet met bayonet. again it was the 29th. blood poured into pools on the grass, hun after hun clasped his weakening grip upon the british bayonet rasping through his chest. he fell and with a foot on the body for leverage a red, dipping blade was withdrawn. on again, crack! crack!! lunge, until the ribs snapped like dry sticks beneath each thrust. stoic british, unmoved, unexcited ... well might you germans call the 29th the iron division. aye, the cult of the bayonet! the enemy sickened ... ran. lining the roads above and below the broken masnières bridges, with its half sunk tank, the ten hundred pumped an annhilating shower or lead into the lines of enemy creeping along the canal bank. he turned and retreated, but a swarm of grey figures had taken rues vertes and were consolidating their positions in what constituted a direct menace to both the 88th brigade at marcoing and the other two (89th and 87th) holding on against the onslaught on a line stretching from masnières to nine wood. in this village the enemy held a pivot from which a turning movement, if supported with sufficient troops and guns, could be enforced. he had both these essentials and his aeroplanes grasped in a moment that an advance from here would, if successful, bring the hun infantry into the direct rear of those british lines still intact, cut the only line of retreat and force the capitulation of the divisions at the apex of the salient. fritz 'planes were up in scores flying in formation, and, having no opposition, were frequently at an altitude of a mere sixty or eighty feet. the scouts, peering down on the situation at masnières, took in at a glance the wide area that had to be covered by the solitary norman battalion without support of any kind. this information was communicated to the german command. inroad from rues vertes was prepared with certain confidence; but they had not calculated with the normans and before the command could move a finger they had lost rues vertes! there was not in that first storming of the village the desperate hand-to-hand fighting that would inevitably have ensued had the hun made a stand. the normans scampered wildly into the one narrow road in the stop-at-nothing rush that came naturally to them; some slipped down the fields with lewis-guns, and fritz aware that his left flank was falling back before the grim counter-attack of the 88th, retired with abrupt haste. the lewis-guns (a machine gun firing 700, or slightly over, shots a minute--in theory, 500 in actual practice) in the fields found that the german retreating line was by force of circumstance brought into that most-deadly fire, enfilade (e.g., firing across a line from a point of vantage at the flank). the guns opened without warning on the three waves, more or less in mass due to the involuntary retreat. no more adequate simile can convey the picture of the fast-falling figures than that of grass beneath the scythe. five minutes, perhaps ten, and it was over. bodies lay thick everywhere, and upon this area of wounded and dying shells were casting square feet of flesh yards into the air. german 'planes, viewing this massacre from above, swept down in swift retribution, and flying low turned their machine-guns upon the unprotected normans. an aeroplane travels at anything from eighty to one hundred miles an hour, and this very speed restricted a lengthy concentration on any one spot, but many a norman fell forward on his face, a dozen leaden bullets in his skull and chest. duquemin, conscious and moaning piteously in agony, was lying crosswise over his rifle, one leg smeared with blood, and the other reclining grotesquely against the hedge twenty yards away. doubled up on a hedge top, rifle still levelled at the foe, a figure lay and upon its shoulders a ghastly mess of brains and blood crushed flat in the steel helmet. duval stumbled blindly towards the dressing station, the flesh gleaming red down one side of his face and an eye almost protruding. le lièvre limped away in the direction of marcoing and walked for five hours before succour came his way. tich was lying face earthwards near the crucifix, a rifle shot in the very centre of his head. rob, quiet, gentle-natured rob, fell forward against the semi-trench. "i--i've got in--the head," he said weakly "i--i'm going, go--." he collapsed ... life ebbed away and he was still. but the normans held rues vertes. the germans launched a heavy offensive, for the retaking, wave after wave, line after line, moving ponderously forward. the norman rifles and machine-guns shrieked out lead in a high staccato until the advance, slackened, wavered and fell back. hun artillery showered shell, gas, and shrapnel over every yard of ground. for a period the normans fell in dozens everywhere. the canal in places was stained red, and norman bodies drifted twirling away on its fast-running waters before sinking. ammunition was short. scouts from headquarters tried to get into marcoing with the information. clarke moving along the road found himself unable to return or to move because of a fritz advanced post. one of the middlesex crossing a clearing in the trees was wiped out by machine-gun fire and toppled over into the canal. mighty trees, a yard radius, bordered those waters, but at every few paces forward the eye took in one of these monsters split open by a shell. the pulse quickened; if it did that to a tree what would be left of you--anyhow you wouldn't know much about it. approaching marcoing the hum of an aeroplane, flying low sounded--in a second i feigned casualty, but he got home on the other scout ahead. phew, wind up! the very streets of marcoing were almost obliterated by the jumbled heap of stone, wood-work and bricks lying across them. bodies in every inconceivable state of partial or whole dismemberment made a ghastly array in the bleak sunlight, blood from man and animal formed dark pools in the hollow sections of the shattered roadway. progress could only be made by moving apprehensively close up to what walls were still standing, and to sprint wildly over the open. wounded were streaming in hundreds towards the dressing station in the square ... many failed to reach there alive. from the top of the chateau in masnières, corporal cochrane (the finest little n.c.o. in the battalion) and a few others were sniping at hun artillery some four hundred yards distant. at last had the infantryman his chance. a steady glance down the sights. crack! miss! crack! got him but only slightly. crack, crack! the unholy glee of it. you could see by the way he fell that it had gone home fatally. crack--another five rounds are rammed into the magazine ... pump it into them, play hell with that artillery while the chance lasts. they stare wildly about in a frenzy. crack, crack, crack! they have had enough and retreat a few hundred yards further south. still, there lies a dozen or more who will not again pour into the quivering flesh shrapnel's hell-hot agony. a glance along the norman ranks during the late afternoon showed appreciably by the many gaps separating man from man how many casualties had already obtained. shells claimed a large toll of victims even among the more or less screened rows of figures lying along the eastern edge of the canal. le poidevin and le page, lighting cigarettes from the same match, caught one in the right and the other the left leg, two flying pieces of shrapnel from a shell bursting over one hundred yards distant; fell and stared at each other in painful astonishment ... hobbled laboriously on the long journey (for a wounded man) into marcoing. stumpy, secure behind a small mound, had gazed with black pessimism on life from the moment tich had given all. "gawd," he observed generally, "ain't it orful. what with shells, an' dead, an' gas! an' i ain't 'ad any rum since last night. wot a pore tommy has got ter put up with." night. a night when men crouched over their rifle waiting to kill, when the owl had gone far from the slaughter and even not the fitful flutter of a bat sped through the dark pall. only man: savage, primitive man, glared at where each remained hidden. the blood lust to kill, always to kill. animal ferocity and passion: man's inheritance. from no man's land came the sobbing call of wounded for succour. far, far across the void sounded those despairing frenzied shrieks. hoarse, appealing, incessant, until they weakened and nothing reached the ear but the smothered sobs of men whose life's sands were running out for want of that aid, so near, but which they were unable to reach. verey lights from fritz's lines rose and fell with monotonous certainty, throwing faint glows on the huddled heaps lying in all directions between the two fronts. a gleam would catch reflection in the glassy eyes of a stiff form, fade and leave you staring hypnotised into the night. was it distorted fancy ... then you would see it again, and again, until in its very frequency you noticed--nothing. shelling slackened. now and again a pause when the stillness could be "heard." from the woods in intermittent intervals the one solitary gun still intact in an entire battery belched forth a lone shell into the enemy lines. in the fantastic flash of each explosion three shirt-sleeved forms showed a ruddy silhouette of blackened hands and features. a tearing, splintering crash awoke echoes as some great bough was shattered in impact with a "heavy" and crackled its cumbersome way past smaller branches to where it splashed into the canal. into an advanced dressing station about rues vertes one of the duo stumbled, bleeding profusely from several wounds, dripping with slimy mud and water, features covered with the grey black dust that comes from close contact with a shell. ozanne stared at him. "gawd," he said, "'ow'd you get that?" "scrap--with a fritz outpost--got a stretcher?" he bent down in a half-faint, was carried to a stretcher and his wounds in body and arm bound. fag in mouth he dozed, was startled into wakefulness by a call from the padre. "boys," he was saying, "this village will be evacuated shortly--can't possibly hold on. those wounded who can had better walk to marcoing." to marcoing! two and a half miles. the norman moved dizzily out of his stretcher, stood up, and tottered to the entrance. "here, kid," a corporal (r.a.m.c.) advised, "you can't do it." "i can." "you'll peg out on the way." "sooner that than--be--a prisoner. but i can--do it." he did! dawn! and with it an intensity of shelling over the whole area. earth, limbs, trees were constantly somewhere in the air. bodies of yesterday were torn asunder again and the wounded who had lasted out the night shrank and writhed in the fiery hail of shrapnel. fritz came over again. he is a courageous warrior, not afraid of his own skin, but is at best when fighting in numbers. a lone fight, back to the wall, is not his métier; he, if at all threatened, retreats. rues vertes fell. it was a physical impossibility for the ten hundred to hold on. the casualties already exceeded three hundred, every man was utterly worn, hungry, had existed for twenty-four hours in a state of the highest nerve tension. not one was there who had not missed death a dozen times by the merest of escapes. they had for ten or eleven days been engaged in an offensive and what meagre rest had been theirs was woefully insufficient to counteract the heavy demands made upon the stamina. out-numbered by twenty to one, completely out-gunned. no reserves, no supports, and only one small line of retreat. no aerial observation, no adequate cover, and an enemy who was aware that a mere shattered battalion stood between them and the capitulation of one or more divisions. they were half famished, tired out ... his troops were fresh. he had no doubts as to the result. again the 29th division repelled an attack on its original front line. fritz tried the flank, came on in waves stretching far over the hill crest. a fire stopped him--could there be only one corps before him. he rallied, swept on again, swarming over the canal banks and close up into the outer masnières' defences; but on his lines hailed a rapid fire from the normans, the like of which he had never deemed possible. savident ran alone into the centre of a roadway with his lewis-gun and poured every solitary shot by him in one long sweep up and down the wavering lines. rifles cracked with the rapid reloading action of marksmen until the barrels burned hot in the hand. the germans fell back. the normans went forward in that reckless rush. rues vertes was retaken! in the outskirts of this village a number of the draft were isolated, became tangled in one great bloody mêlée with the angrily retreating enemy. there was nothing for it but a fight to the death. through the glasses they could be seen to hold off the hun for a few brief minutes, met him in a ghastly lunging of bayonets, from which beads of blood were dropping ... but they went under one by one, until one thick-set lad remained, seized two huns one after the other by the neck, twisted them with his own hands and went over the divide, a bayonet through his heart. but their example put the fear of death into the enemy and for an hour the thinning line of normans had no attack. he reformed, sent a large number of machine-guns with his first wave, concentrated a fearful artillery fire on the villages, and swept forward. the same fire met him, again the lines wavered, but that hail of lead was more than the men could withstand. they went back--many of the gunners without their machine-guns, not back a hundred yards or so but almost out of rifle range. the artillery fire had created havoc among the normans. twenty figures writhed in agony in so many feet, a stream of blood-soaked lads were moving slowly away towards marcoing. one lewis-gun team was lying about in all directions, forms distorted, limbs missing and great bare stretches of red flesh showing with sickening brilliancy of colour--and the gun itself was untouched. irony of fate. on the sloping grass seven inert khaki forms could be counted, on the lower levels another five: stretched across the mound to the east of the canal a dozen or more were visible at intervals of eight or so yards. all from one spot without moving the head. the casualties were more than the untouched. weary normans, knowing that your turn would not be long acoming--and you would not be sorry when it did--knowing, too, that behind was no relief force. you had to hold, there was no alternative. and each face lifted earnestly in the light was set of jaw. god grant them life and they would hold until the hun himself called "halt!" ammunition had come up ... therefore was there only one factor by which they might fail--no men to use the rifles. they spoke sometimes in the pauses. "wonder wot they'll say at 'ome about all these yere dead?" "dunno." "anyhow, we ain't done bad work." "no; an' we'll hang on yere like 'ell, even if they brings the ole bloomin' german army." "sure. if jerry thinks 'e can show us 'ow to shoot 'e has made a 'ell of a outer." "d'you know," shyly, "we 'ave done somethin' big!" "yes; i s'pose we 'ave." the very men who had fought on and made good in face of odds that no man in his senses would have bet on at a thousand to one chance, opined that they had "done something big," or at least they "s'posed so." no regiment in the empire, or out of it, could have done more. they had to "hang on" at any cost. they did: simply, doggedly. the guards--rushed up to the southern portion of the sector and launched against the german advance--with a determination and tenacity of purpose against which the offered opposition was futile, turned the enemy flank and forced them back in the direction of their original (november 30th) line through cambrai. a strong detachment fell back on the masnières-rumilly sector, thereby enforcing on the small norman remnant a further infliction of bloody fighting and casualties. the guards swept back the waves of grey upon the guernseys, who could not retreat--for a few hundred yards behind them the rest of the brigade were holding up a further enemy element. our own artillery, harassing the fritz retreat, sent over a number of shells into masnières. fritz batteries, in response to the urgency of the situation, hailed down shrapnel on a scale only equalled on the morning of their onslaught. the normans came in for the thick of it. the men holding the far end of the little town found themselves swamped down in the overwhelming rush of an entire retreating battalion. they were prisoners before the abrupt alteration in the direction of the german movement had dawned on them. above rues vertes the spiteful fire of the remaining scattered units of the ten hundred impressed upon the hun mind a fear of those riflers that was pregnant enough to force him to rapidly verge away from the spot to a safer distance of a mile or so. the little village near the crucifix was withdrawn from at dusk with no molestation. shelling slackened to a mere initial salvo from rumilly. the lull followed in which enemy reinforcement were being brought up to be thrown in large forces upon those stubborn british regiments who were clinging tenaciously, with unshaken obstinacy, to shattered trenches. lieut. stone (afterwards m.c.) led a bombing raid under cover of night into rues vertes, originating there an uproar that startled every fritz within a mile into a bad degree of "windy" apprehension. he fired into the air a frenzied array of verey lights in hope of discovering the extent of the raid. had the ten hundred been less war-worn they would have chuckled delightedly over this successful bluff, but they hardly commented upon it, stared wearily and disinterestedly at the flashes of bursting grenades, turned away and banged arms and hands noisily on thighs to enforce some little circulation into those cold, clammy limbs. so utterly exhausted were a few of the youngsters that they had fallen into unsettled sleep across their rifles, startled now and again into fearful wakedness by a mind that had for days been awaiting something that would inevitably come. men were little more than mechanical figures, but the brain ran rampant and uncontrolled until the wild memories of furious german attacks earlier in the day surged up with acute pregnancy and the victim fell prey to poignant hallucination. the endless rows of grey figures would advance yard by yard ... five hundred range, four hundred, three hundred. god, we can't stop him. the crackle of rifles and machine-guns shrieked higher ... two hundred; one hundred. breath comes and goes in sobs--in one minute he will be on you. then he wavers. now is the time; pump the lead into him ... he turns. and the lad regaining control of his distorted imagination discovers that his rifle barrel is hot and that he has let fly a dozen rounds into the void ... a shaky hand passes slowly over a sweat-covered brow. the higher command, realising that the holding of masnières with the small remnants of troops in the sector was impossible, ordered the withdrawal to a support line of the old hindenburg system, and thus straightening out or at least modifying the british frontage. what remaining elements of the ten hundred still survived were allotted the last task of covering the brigade's withdrawal. they stood their ground to the final stages of the movement and they only evacuated because ordered to do so. middlesex, lancs. fusiliers, royal fusiliers, each battalion badly cut up, moved away while the normans held on, pumping lead in whining chorus to convey to the german mind that troops were plentiful and to camouflage the fact that a withdrawal was taking place. then they stumbled to their feet, weak from exhaustion, exposure and hunger. the wind moaned in trees in company with their uncertain footsteps, the still forms of brother normans smiled up to the stars and bade them mute farewell as they came away from that sacred ground, sodden with their blood. the germans in the morning would find everywhere the honoured dead and would place them in their last resting place in the damp soil for which they had willingly given of their lives to hold. because no one would be there to resist him he would walk their treasured strip of soil; but his footsteps would never have defiled it while one norman had remained. hands clenched in agony ... he would take it ... they had failed to uphold those who had gone before. to leave it after all they had done, to give it without a shot. why, why----? the passing of the old ten hundred. a few over three hundred men marched without sound to where a train awaited. silent, haggard, worn! the remnants of the normans. six or seven hundred casualties in two days--they were aptly "remnants." the train pulled out. the cambrai offensive was merely history. the following letter was sent to the bailiff of guernsey by the c.o. of the 29th division shortly after the cambrai battle, which the bailiff read at a sitting of the royal court:- "i want to convey to the guernsey authorities my very high appreciation of the valuable services rendered by the royal guernsey light infantry in the battle of cambrai. their's was a wonderful performance. "their first action was on november 20th. and though their task of that day was not severe, they carried out all they were asked to do with a completeness that pleased me much. the c.o., de la condamine, was then invalided, and i placed my most experienced c.o. in command. this was lieut.-colonel hart-synot, nephew of sir reginald hart. "on november 30th, when the germans, in their heavy surprise attack, pierced our line to the south of my sector, the enemy entered the village of les rues vertes, a suburb of masnières, which town was my right flank. it was the guernsey light infantry which recovered this village twice by counter-attacks, and which maintained the southern defences of masnières for two days against seven german attacks with superior forces and very superior artillery. when we were ordered to evacuate masnières on the night of december 1st, it being a dangerous salient, with the enemy on three sides, it was the royal guernsey light infantry which covered the withdrawal. guernsey has every reason to feel the greatest pride in her sons, and i am proud to have them under me fighting alongside my staunch veterans of three years' fighting experience. "many officers and men greatly distinguished themselves, among whom i may first mention le bas, and after him stranger, stone and sangster. "i enclose a copy of special order, and feel that guernsey should participate in the pride we all feel in having done our duty. i regret the casualties of the battalion were heavy, a further proof, if any were needed, that they fought magnificently." ix december-january, 1918 houvin detraining at a railroad the small force of normans swung away upon a long march to billets in houvin, partaking at last of the rest that had for so long been their dire need. the plentitude of food, ample sleep, clean clothing, and the wholesome cleanliness of pure water in which the body could be purified of a war's protracted stagnations, acted visibly upon the spirits. they had had access to papers portraying to the full how much had depended upon their stand in those critical days, and now it was over they marvelled at how they had done it. from their connection with the 29th division, in the previous september, there had been borne upon them from friendly contact with brother battalions, the subtle esprit de corps permeating a division who had won fame at gallipoli, who inspired when transferred to france a fear of their arms in the hun mind, and won from the recalcitrant foe eulogy in the form of "the iron division." a strong mutual respect was apparent between them and the remaining regiments of the 86th brigade. each felt that reliance could at any time be placed upon the other: had they not already put their mettle to the test and come through with honours? the old humour re-asserted itself among the wild, careless fellows who had come through. tich, one of the duo, birfer, and ginger were no longer there to plot out their daily round of "schemes." clarke, martel, stumpy, and old casey were left to carry on--and they were quite capable of doing so. stumpy formed a friendship with another of his diminutive height and large waistband in the middlesex, and the two were frequently hobnobbing together in each others' billets. "we lost a lot of good fellows," stumpy sighed heavily over his pipe, "wot we couldn't spare. there was three wot never drank rum and who all got 'it." a roar of laughter interrupted him. "yes, all got 'it. and there was pore old jack who got a dose in the arm an' 'ad to walk a 'ell of a way to the dressin' station. 'e was bleedin' bad an' asked me ter take orf 'is pack, which i did, an' his water-bottle as well, becos it was full of rum and--an' rum is 'eavy." "rum, full of rum," his little pal looked up at him with dry lip, "you--you ain't got any left?" "no, becos i put it aside, an' some scrounger pinched it. all i 'opes is that it bloomin' well choked 'im." someone bawled from the doorway that "supper was up." billets are a form of barracking troops in a number of barns and stables spread over as small an area as possible. the one salient advantage of these shelters is fresh air; it comes in with icy gusts through these apertures made for the purpose and whistles through cracks in the door--if there is a door--and gaps where once glass had kept it out. for those to whom the sky on a star-lit night provides an hour's ecstacy a hole or two in the roof is a blessing, but to the common mortal is a damnation by which the winter wind tints the nose o' nights a soft shade of deep purple or gives passage to a gentle flow of rain that forms lakes and pools on your overcoat and blanket and which at the slightest movement runs like a small river down your chest until you wake with a shivering gasp. rats and mice make their way interestedly in and out of sleeping forms, investigate with deliberate intent the contents of your pack, or perchance make a tentative nibble at an odd toe or so. if anything digestible is found in an overcoat pocket the exasperating rodents do not enter by the obvious pocket-flap, but chew their way in from the outside. the weary old monotony of daily routine common to the army set in, parades and inspections forced their unpleasant encroachments upon each day. men whom a few weeks before had been forced to face the heaviest fighting they had ever experienced, now made the abrupt discovery that they were again liable to fall foul of the miles of red-tapeism that is everywhere rampant in regulations respecting innumerable minor offences. this perpetual inspection by an officer sickens. his minute survey of every inch of the uncouth, army-rigged mortals, peppered with injunctions in relation to an absence of polish on boots or equipment, was never favorably received. there was a grain of humour in the actions of subalterns who were wont to jab up and down the bolt of a rifle with the air of an expert and solemnly inform the owner (who had fired several hundred rounds through it at tight moments) that he must "... be careful to oil the bolt--most important." much new clothing had to be issued to replace the battle-scared remnants of the cambrai stunt. thrown to the men in the happy haphazard army method--there were created a new series of parisian modes for draping the figure. army-rig! there was no lack of space or originality in the cut of le huray's enormous wide trousers (the leg would comfortably have encircled his waist), turned up when worn without puttees two and one-half inches at the bottom; the top if hitched well up had manifest advantages as a muffler. issued on the same logical lines, mahy received a tiny pair of nether garments for his loner legs and a little tunic that hung limply like an undersized eton-jacket six inches short of where it should have reached. some lads were lost in shirts with sleeves generally associated with chinese or other eastern gentlemen, others moodily surveyed themselves in small shrunken garments that with only superhuman effort could be forced to meet the waistband without emiting a warning rip. duport found it so. "look 'ere," he growled, "trousers won't reach me waist upwards; shirt won't either, downwards. leavin' a bloomin' two inches orl round of bare flesh." "camouflage it." "'ow d'you mean?" "paint the space brown an' pretend it's a belt." the quarter-master sergeant and his assistant found an avalanche of new material and old on their hands. (the q.m.s.'s are those individuals who keep all the new clothing in store and by only the wiliest of tommies can such material be wangled.) the q.m.s. of the ten hundred was not exactly popular among the ranks. n.b.--neither q.m.s.'s nor c.q.m.s.'s are acquainted as a rule with the gentle solitude of the first line trenches. their duty it is to receive and issue the "plum and apple," the "road-paving" biscuit and the weekly change of under-garments. in the field no man has actual possession of shirt, sock, or under-garments. these are all given in at each visitation to the baths and others issued in return. your shirt thrown over to you by the c.q.m.s. might be somewhat decrepit and holey or might have some resemblance to a new one. you might have two odd socks or (if you were among the bevy of schemers) two or three pairs would be in your possession--illegally. parades were detestable. they had imagined that england was the training camp for these operations. in france they had expectation of fighting and resting, not marching up and down with occasional halts, while the platoon officer furtively asks his sergeant what order he must give next. the pivot round which all parades manoeuvre is always with the regimental sergeant-major (the main function of all r.s.m.'s is to walk round with a big stick). he, an old regular, despite the iron discipline so candidly hated, was withall a staunch supporter of fair play for the ranker, a tartar on parade, and feared more by the junior n.c.o.'s than the very inhabitor of lower regions. an n.c.o. (non-commissioned officer) is an individual whose main talent lies in the ability to bawl out orders at men one yard distant in a voice having a hundred yards range. the possessors of some subtle superiority not descernible by ordinary individuals, they are for this reason forbidden to converse or walk with the men when "off parade." these stringent regulations never materialise in actual practice, but it conveys a hint of the tinge of "hindenburgism" with which the army is tainted--excepting dominion forces, wherein the negligible gulf between officers and men is easily bridged. there will always, however, be a sneaking regard in the hearts of the few normans who rested there; for houvin. it was there that men could sleep far from the haunting spectre of anticipated death or devastation: there, too, life could be enjoyed to the full in the happy knowledge that no shells would pitch near by, no machine-gun turn its whining trail of bullets across your path. and it was at first difficult to realise that danger to limb was past, that movement to and fro was free from the hovering shrapnel that had so long dogged their steps and penetrated the mind with its presence until accepted as an everyday visitation such as the sun. parcels and mail arrived with a glad regularity. there is no more pregnant a "reviver" of downheartedness than letters from the old people, nor is anything more liable to inspire the "pip" than the absence of such personal touches with familiar scenes. papers can never replace the badly penned and still more badly worded missives despatched from some humble cottage. those two pages of scrawled information go far nearer to the receiver's heart than twenty columns of polished well written print. the letter is almost a living link with all that in which he has the strongest interest ... he is far more delighted at the news of tilly's overthrow of jim for jack than a mere possible fall of the british cabinet which might be pending. "besides," stumpy pointed out with unconscious irony, "you opens a paper an' you knows there ain't nothin' in it, while the ole woman might 'ave put ten bob in yer letter." tommy has never sufficient a supply of cash. everywhere a few miles behind the line a canteen or y.m.c.a. had been pushed forward and in these places the five francs a lad receives about once a fortnight does not go very far or last long. nor does its purchasing value cover more than a meagre supply of such commodities as cake, chocolate, tobacco and beer. with regard to the latter, stress must be laid on the fact that tommy is far less often in a state of drunkenness than the average civilian and that he is far more prone to derive humour out of it than to drink it. x december-january, 1918 flers--le parcq--verchocq snow had fallen and sprinkled the countryside with a semi-transparent white mantle. roads due to freezing o' nights were hard and slippery, making the going for men labouring beneath the burden of full pack irksome and heavy. the normans had no eyes for the countryside (there is no beauty in the finest masterpieces of nature if physical conditions are not in harmony) but had the surface before them fixedly under focus in the interest of the neck's safety. eighteen or so kilos (approximately 11-1/4 miles) over the long straight levels common to france and which, although of course the shortest route between two points is viewed by the marching columns as far longer than it actually is because of the distant visibility. and tommy would prefer a more winding journey even if the distance covered is greater. the night's rest at flers in the midst of heavy falls of snow put the wind up the men at the knowledge of a longer march on the morrow, but the alarm was false and a trek of four kilos materialised--hard going the whole way--to le parcq, a town situated on the top of a hill, the discovery of a short cut causing the break from schedule. the "cut" was made up a steep incline that proved a severe obstacle to the wildly struggling horses of transport waggons on the vile surface. several lorries with the all-essential stores, blankets, etc., found the "glass" road utterly impassable. this unfortunate set-back reacted on the men, who, because of the blanket shortage were doomed to but one per man throughout the winter night of fierce cold, against which the shivering, suffering lads had as protection billets without roofs and in some instances with mere relics of sides. the pain was acute, sleep difficult. some unable to withstand the torture paced up and down the whole night through, banging arms heavily across bodies to stimulate some semblance of warmth. at the first indications of dawn they were started on what proved to be one of the longest marches in their experience. the weather was harsher than on any of the preceding days and the frozen snow surface of the roads presented in itself a factor that materially magnified the heavy labouring beneath full pack, arduous to a degree under the easiest of conditions. before mid-day the constant vigilance and care necessary if a hard fall was to be avoided began to tell on the nerves, irritability forced its grip, and they glared savagely at one another at every sideslip--inevitable in a long trek over such roads. after twenty or so kilos had been reeled off physical exhaustion invaded man after man, growling ceased, heads bent forward and the eyes watched unseeing the heels of the man ahead. mechanical rigidity of monotonous, torturous march again held sway, the old dryness of tongue and aching of burning feet grew more and more acute at each heavy step forward. an hour passed in painful silence, and another, but ever onward along the long trail of miles--left, right, left. at each step you muttered it softly--left right--or counted them one by one until the mind rambled on confused in tens of thousands. a stage had been attained when one felt nothing, knew nothing, but just the unending chorus of padding feet guided by the mere instinct of a mind in a condition of peculiar coma. the ten minute halts were taken at each hour with no comment. men threw themselves prone on the road, closed eyes, stood up unthinking at the order and fell again into the harsh rigidity of movement. just before dusk the "machine" halted at verchocq, after a march of thirty-three kilos. they were tired, worn, hungry.... no lorries or cookers turned up that night! followed that abrupt revival of spirits that cannot but remain a pyschological mystery. no cookers--no grub. they threw aside without an effort complete exhaustion, the outcome of an entire day's strenuous bodily exertion, sallied forth with remarkable sangfroid and certainty in verchocq, there conversing with the inhabitants, made themselves thoroughly at home and gratefully partook of the hot fare hospitably provided them--the fierce inroads upon food that only the utterly famished can readily appreciate, and which indelibly impressed upon the intellect of their hosts a certainty that british troops could never have their appetite satiated. they returned to billets in varying moods and conditions, one or two ignoring a straight walk and zig-zagging an uncertain course across the roads. stumpy, who had received a generous welcome from a misguided patriot, sat down with smug complacency, holding one hand lovingly over an abdomen over-filled with good fare. "weren't 'alf orl right," he said "lawd, wot with five eggs an' 'am an' bread; but there weren't any beer, only," with a shudder, "a 'ome-made lemonade." "yus," duquemin agreed, "dam good-hic-sort these french people. fine lil' daughter wi' blue-hic-eyes. 'eld my 'and, and she hic-said was brave-hic soldier. ver' proud ... 'allo wot-hic-doing'." a lad was kneeling in his corner, hands clasped in prayer. (he did so night after night unmolested.) the crowd watched curiously--but had anyone dare to scoff they, as mahieu said, "would a' knocked the b---scoffer's 'ead orf." strange ingrained instinctive assertion of fair play predominant in the attitude of those wild, uncouth mortals. few of them had thought of outward expression of god--a fierce resentment world galvanise into life at the slightest sneer upon the unprotected back of those who had the pluck. from his couch in a solitary blanket the agnostic grunted. "fetish," he observed quietly, "the warrior appealing to his oracle of delphi like a savage to his moon. passing gods of a passing generation...." "yesh," duquemin agreed sagely. "passin' gen'ral rashon--no rashon-hic-pore-guernseys. oonly wot people gi'...." the friendship originated during the normans' first night at vorchocq with the french grew as the days progressed, accentuated by the norman knowledge of the people's mother-tongue. they made the utmost of their time, lived life to the very full, inspired by the knowledge that the draft of four hundred staffords and two hundred or so guernseymen (the ten per cent. who had not participated at cambrai) who were to become absorbed into the ten hundred were auguries of an approaching further acquaintance with the front line. christmas day provided an ample fare in addition to the ordinary rations, small parties engaging rooms in estaminets and farms, purchasing the very limit of eatables obtainable with what financial lengths were at their disposal, obtained bottles of port and gave vent to an unbounded vein of hilarious humour and uproarious chorus in celebration of a christmas that many knew would be their last. in a quiet room four of the ascetic rankers (clarke, martel, lomar and white) passed an evening that will long remain a pleasant memory, tempered with pain for the one who soon afterwards paid the supreme sacrifice. everywhere uproar was rampant. light, laughter, and good cheer maintained undisputed sway upon all. rose-cheeked daughters of france were toasted again and again, taken into muscular arms and kissed times without number. the old marching rallies of the ten hundred were roared out from every tiny house ablaze with light, echoed out into the inscrutable pall of black and wafted far away into the shadows. and they toasted the "old battalion," the warriors who were lying in the damp masnières soil; the future; and god's own isle--their little motherland. it hurt, how it hurt! how the tiny green island rose mistily before the eyes in all its sun-bathed romance and mystery! how the sweet aroma of its gold, furze-crowned cliffs, the laughter of blue waters, the lowing of cattle, came flooding with glad memories on the mind ... and you may not ever again scent that furze or glimpse those waters! they laughed memory back into its dim past. what of the future? live only for the present! bunny was happy. reclining gracefully in the gutter he sang a jumbled lullaby of melodies. "there's maggots in the cheese, you can 'ear the beggars sneeze--" he struggled manfully to his feet, fell into a helpless fit of laughter and collapsed again into the roadway with a heavy grunt. an n.c.o. found him there a few minutes later. "'ere," he demanded, "wot are you doin' there?" "doin'," bunny chuckled helplessly: "wot think i'm doin ... plantin' daisies or diggin' for gold?" "look 'ere, me lad, if you're lookin' for trouble--!" "lookin' for trouble?--not lookin' for anything. just 'avin' a rest by the wayside an' gazin' at stars." "well, get up or i'll 'old you up, an' you'll see 'em then." "or-righ'. want, want, lil' drop toddy?" "got much? pass it over." "ain't got none. only asked if you want a-a drop...." he moved away and from far down the street his dirge carried faintly: "there's whiskers on the pork we curl 'em with a fork--." in unhappy contract to christmas. new year proved to be a day of short rations, bully beef and a rehearsal of an attack in the snow. the bread ration dwindled down to winkleian proportions. a move up the line was pending in the near future and rumours that of all hellish sectors they were going up the passchendaele-ypres areas, were received with continuous outbursts of growling. the young staffords who had not the gruesome knowledge of belgian desolation were satisfied with a front anywhere near the magic ypres. they wanted to see the place where, as one of them was perpertually saying. "a couple of blighty regiments made a bloomin' 'ell of a mess of the whole blooming' jerry army." there was everywhere a mutual recognition of a possible, a probable, german attack on a scale to date unparalleled. every battalion in the brigade was thoroughly cognisant that at some time during the next few months they would be called upon to make another cambrai stand. there was a general feeling that he would attempt to crush the british army at a blow, seize the channel ports, and thus isolate what armies had escaped the first onslaught. xi december-january, 1918 leulene--brandhoek--ypres january 3.--snow had, after three weeks on the ground beneath the hardening influence of a temperature several degrees below zero, evolved into a surface upon which a constant steady balance demanded no little skill. marching encumbered with a full pack, clumsy army-shod feet, one arm only free for a much hampered swing, increased the difficulties of maintaining a secure foothold. (full pack: a conglomeration of articles intended in normal ages to be transported by two mules, but under the influence of advanced civilisation strapped on the back of one man, in addition to a rifle, half a dozen mills' bombs, a lewis-gun, spade or shovel, sheet of corrugated iron, or any other article that can be somewhere hung upon him). weariness, fed-upity, after many miles had been laboriously reeled off, was a factor in slackening vigilance on the semi-ice, many painful falls resulting--to fall with a pack produces a situation resembling a beetle on its back. stumpy pulled someone out of a snowdrift--then he fell into one himself, unnoticed. he caught the battalion up at the halt. "oh, 'ell," he shouted indignantly, "i might a' died for all you bloomin' well cared." "why, wot's up?" "up? i fell into a bloomin' drift." "oh, an' wot the 'ell d'you do that for?" "do it for. why, why...!" the crowd about him grinned. "p'raps 'e saw 'is ole woman comin 'along the road." "'e saw the bloomin' captain drop a 'skate' (fag-end) down an' went after it." "that's the way 'e 'as 'is weekly wash." "he was playin' snowballs with 'is bloomin' self." the command to "fall in" dropped the curtain. in the grey of dusk the shadowy column marched into leulene. the ten hundred, after an eleven days' "rest" in the icy grip of a winter's wind that clung to leulene unabating throughout the period, marched away and entrained upon their first portion of journey front-linewards. cattle-trucks provide ample novelty, aroma and draughts. refuse covering the floor is swept by the occupants into a corner heap, but someone has to sleep on it. an open space between a sliding door can comfortably accommodate two with legs dangling over, but invariably has four or more hunched-up, jumbled khaki figures. these trains never hurry: always twist and turn and double back half-a-dozen times in journeyings from one point to another. jolting and jarring is unnoticed--you are past noticing anything after the first hour! officers have usually the luxury of railway carriages, but the private-privates: individuals who form the large proportion of a battalion. their salient duties embrace shining buttons, carrying up officers' rations, dodging parades, scrubbing out sergeants' and officers' mess, squad drill, guards, and c.b., picking up paper near the billets, grousing and growing thin on short rations--during spare moments they are used for fighting. detraining at brandhoek, the ten hundred marched to brake camp, a rambling collection of huts built in a wood near the main road running between poperinghe and ypres, within a short distance of vlamertynghe. it was "pop!" unchanged, grim and grey, visited day and night by bomb and shell with the ceaseless activity of that belgian area. a battalion of worcesters, whom the normans were relieving, painted a merry picture of the sodden sector. "fritz ain't 'alf playin' 'ell wi' the front line. washed out two blasted regiments in less than a week...." "no bloomm' trenches up there. only shell 'oles an' hundreds of bodies. ration parties can't get up wi' the grub...." "jerry shells like 'ell orl night an' sends over gas in shells and cloud orl day. three 'undred casualties last week an' i 'eard that alf of 'em kicked the bucket...." "old jerry 'as a million troops from russia waitin' to come over next month for his offensive...." "yus, sir daggie 'aig sez 'e must sacrifice 'is first lines. an', wots more, yer up to the neck in water...." the normans slept that night haunted by nightmare visitations created by minds pervaded with strong "wind-upity." stumpy succumbed to a. fit of depression from which nothing could rouse him. evans (a stafford) gave him a fag. "cheer up," he said. "can't? bloomin' water up to yer neck an' they don't issue lifebelts an' i can't swim." "garn. that's only wot they sez." "gas an' shells an' troops." "only bloomin' rumours." "an' no ration parties can got up--oh gawd!" "wot about it?" "no ration parties means no grub an' no rum. wot a pore tommy 'as got ter put up with." the following day marching through ypres they moved further up the line to a camp situated near st. jean and from whence they would make their final preparations and march towards the duckboard (a series of boards resembling actual duck-boards and raised to a height above the ground varying in accordance to the depth of water) track winding up the wasted shell-torn soil to the communication trenches. the "atmosphere" of the place was painfully reminiscent to the survivors from the previous september of the nerve-wrecking task that had been their unfortunate lot during that baptism of fire. the grim devastation of the flat, water-covered countryside enforced upon the spirits something of its own desolation. everywhere the gaunt, shell-shattered trees, through which o' nights the incessant red glow eastward penetrated just as it had four months before. day and night the perpetual roar of artillery, the heavy shock of falling bombs, the familiar kr-ump! and the knowledge that the brief security of life had passed. again, already, none knew who might not glimpse the dawn; again the hell-hot shrapnel and the writhing human flesh. to-morrow that arm may be a shattered, jagged hanging "thing" ... how firm, fine, and white it looks: smooth, strong.... you look curiously along the line of adjacent faces. can all come through--impossible. who will go under first ... will it be you? wonder what it is like to die? men had often fallen limply near by, a small round hole in the forehead and a trickle of blood. they seemed calm enough ... wonder where they went ... did they know they were dead? do you feel the bullet whistling through your brain ... do you have one last lightning thought cut short, "this is death!"...? anyhow, what of it ... others have done it. if they could, you could! before going up into the icy-cold of water-logged semi-trenches the feet were treated with special attention to counteract the action of continual wet and frost upon the flesh. if the utmost care is not taken, and the dreaded "trench feet" fastens its fierce grip upon the victim, there lies before him many weeks of agony in hospital, haunted daily by a chance of losing one or both feet. all this without the glad consolation of a wound! washed in warm water, the feet are greased and powdered and new socks placed carefully over before setting out on the trudge linewards. trench equipment is issued, two days' rations served out, and a start is made in the night. stumpy lost his "grub" by misadventure, but found somebody else's, withstood a fierce argument for ten minutes and finally pacified his opponent by "finding" still another issue. hoarse orders sent men probing about for their rifles and assortment of equipment. the ten hundred filed out. xii passchendaele sector eyes gazing eastward at the rising and falling verey lights in jerry's lines, the ten hundred trudged wearily along a sodden plank "road" winding into a stretch of muddy track strewn on all sides with the gruesome conglomeration of war's jetsam. the way had to be carefully chosen past shell-holes full of water, with here and there a slowly twirling body, a white face shining hideously in the damp night air. to the south a wavering mass of searchlights flitted over the sky. archie guns were raising a fierce distant clamour, the white puffs from their bursting shrapnel showing like gigantic snowballs in the glare, but no trace of the fritz airmen was visible. a series of violent concussions and the faint high-up throb of aero engines were the only indications of his gambols. then silent filing along a poor system of filthy trenches ... the other battalion was relieving. posting of men, reliefs.... to stand there in the night, suffering acutely from the cold, unmoving, staring fascinated across the little stretch of desolation between the lines and to watch fanciful shadows until the mind falls prey to apprehensive imagination construing the posts and wiring into great fantastic grey-cloaked figures. then at the turn of the head--what is that? in one frenzied movement the rifle is levelled across the parapet, first pressure of the trigger taken and the shadowy bulk watched. five long minutes of intense scrutiny--it moved, or was it mere fancy? there again--crack!! and the figure has not fallen ... so through the darkness, until day reveals a shrivelled form tangled up on the wire where it died days ago. parts of the area were simply connected shell-holes, outposts, the occupants of which might for hours at a stretch be completely isolated from the remainder of their battalion, and, receiving no visit from anyone, have not the merest inkling of what was going on outside of what lies before their own limited vision. the failure of water supply reaching these outposts increased an already severe existence. someone would go "over the top," crawl to and fill water-bottles up at the nearest shell-hole. a body or limb might be at the bottom--who cares! the water is rank, putrid, evil-smelling; but the fierce, mad craving for drink is not to be denied. a shell found one of the small advanced posts, killed a few outright and gashed a long tear into the abdomen of the one survivor. he languished there alone with the dead for eight hours--they had been "lost." he was found, removed, died before reaching a casualty clearing station. inexorable law of chance. fritz sent over gas shells night and day, hampering rationing parties, and enforcing prolonged agony inside the hot respirators. gas, heavier than air, hangs low over the ground, follows inundations up and down, and slinks across water: hanging for days over damp soil, and permeating water with a sickly colour--an obvious danger to troops drinking this liquid. where the country was flooded duck-boards were raised to a height sufficient to stand above the water and presented at night (all movements are generally done at nightfall) an alluring task of maintaining balance on a narrow planking (couple of feat or so) adorned with no handrails or supports and invisible five feet away. when fritz sends over gas and respirators have to be donned during the intricate negotiation of this "pathway"----! clarke and bennet, moving gingerly beneath two heavy ration issues, paused abruptly to duck to a whining shell. the latter slipped, fell off into the miniature ocean, clambered out. "oh, 'ell, bloomin' bread too--look out!" "that's the second dud." "yes, must be gas." respirators on they were unable to peer a foot either way, sat down uncomfortably on the boards and waited for the attack to move away. but when they did stand up and gazed about them ... which way was which? the absence in places of any line or wiring (posts would not stand up in the watery soil) permitted men o' nights to wander unawares towards the fritz trenches. a crack, a fall--for weeks the body would lie outside the enemy lines until it rotted and fell apart. and someone was posted "missing." trench feet began to find its victims among the young staffords--they trekked away in agony, but withal glad to get out of it. with the puzzling rapidity of trench casualties the daily roll increased without anyone quite grasping how or when this or that man went. he would be with you this morning, to-morrow you would miss him; inquire and learn that he had stopped a blighty. evans, an adherent of the occult, vowed that he had been visited by some eternal being of the spirit world. stumpy was profoundly interested. "wot'd 'e say?" "nothing much. only that somethin' would portend for me to-morrow." "oh, did 'e want a drink?" "course not." "if 'e 'ad asked you for your rum ration, would you," anxiously, "'ave given it to 'im." "couldn't: 'adn't any left." "wot woz 'e like?" "tall, shadowy." "an' you really believes it?" "yus. i 'ave proof--" "i see. i, i s'pose 'e could give you anything you asked 'im for?" "within reason." "then," whispered ironically, "ask 'im next time to give me a soft blighty an' a drop of toddy, an', oh, some bloomin' fags." "can't be done, for something will 'appen to me to-morrow." he was wrong; decided that the spook had altered for his own good reasons the daily course of his life and eagerly awaited a visit that never materialised. stumpy was disgusted. "all me eye. i know it wasn't a bloomin' spook when i 'eard 'e 'adn't asked for a drink. wot on earth would anyone visit these yere bloomin' trenches for unless he smelt rum?" "you don't understand." "no, an' bloomin' well don't want to. a spook wot rejoins 'is ole friends on earth an' don't even offer 'em a drink is unnatural--that's wot i say." the large, dry and roomy dug-out beloved by the armchair artist, very, very rarely offers its cosy hospitality to the warrior dwelling in the front line--even if there is anything bearing a faint resemblance to such an elaboration it is immediately seized by company headquarters. the inter-connecting series of holes occupied by the normans and flattered with the term "trenches" had cut here and there into the wet soil a number of side excavations of smart proportions that served the purpose of shelter from the elements and shells alike--a heavy barrage from a pea-shooter would have blown in the muddy roofs of these water-logged death traps. to reach the rear lines movement could only be made on the top and fully exposed to enemy snipers, who, suffering badly from forced inactivity and ennui, delighted to exercise their shooting powers by a few minutes' pleasant concentration upon your helpless figure. mud and water, upon which floated an interesting conglomeration of filthy rubbish, flowed saucily around your ankles, sometimes your knees, and when you fell off a high duckboard, your neck. the humour of it--afterwards! the acute misery and suffering of those long, long nights standing in water; cold, hungry and weary. body aching from the fierce winter's blast and the fingers gone stiff, immovable, almost unfeeling ... with no hope for the future, but always the ceaseless watch and wait until the great peace of death overtakes the tired body and a troubled soul leaves its burden to be carried on by those who follow after. rain lashed stinging into the face, dripping in rivulets from off the steel helmet and forcing its way into the neck ... the shrieking of an unnerving wind ... the blast of mighty shell ... the gas ... death was not the worst alternative. fritz played heavily on the back areas; we returned shell for shell, but no infantry action took place on either side during the eight days of norman occupation. the enemy was concentrating his man-power for a push with the opening of finer days, and we did not have an excess of men to waste after the heavy toll of the cambrai stunt. the ten hundred were relieved for a brief rest. xiii passchendaele sector poperinghe--steenvoorde--brandhoek the ten hundred had revelled in the luxury of a hot bath. "casey," who had found and hurriedly slipped into his trouser pocket a full packet of "fags" inadvertently left behind by some individual with an unbalanced mind, portrayed his bare arm for general admiration of the four small scars thereon. "waccinated," he said, "by good ole kinnersley." (dr.--captain kinnersley, undoubtedly the one man who held the softest corner in the hearts of all the old normans, and whose friendly hand-shakes as from man to man were never forgotten by the "boys" of the original 1st battalion). "wots the good?" le page demanded. "good--wot a question. why, it stops fever, an' smallpox, an' almost everythin'." "any good fer toothache?" the crowd chuckled noisily. "would it stop a clock?" "any good for a bloomin' non-stop thirst?" "p'raps it might stop the war?" "ever tried it on yer ole woman's tongue, casey?--but it wouldn't stop that!" they were interrupted by a command from the company officer to "get a move on." company officer controls a company. main functions to dole out pay (when he's not stopping it), c.b., and rum. c.b. (confined to barracks) and similar punishments are usually granted you by the genial administrator as an adequate reward for such crimes as too little razor, too much beer, too weak a polish, or too strong a language, late on fatigue or early off it.... some men are always in trouble, but provided with a programme of glib excuses and prepared at a moment's notice to call witnesses (false), always escape punishment. some do not care if punished or not and who boast that they had full value for their "two days c.b." heaume had a cute dodge of replying to an officer's angry expostulation that he (heaume) had already been "up" twenty times with: "no, sir,--only sixteen so far." seven or eight days at brake camp were followed by a week at english camp, from whence working parties daily moved up the line by rail to the vicinity of merrythought station. the ten hundred were put through the mill as never before. "out fer a rest," a stafford summed up, "be 'anged fer a yarn ... called the last place brake ... breaking us in fer this." poperinghe made up for it. a week without one jerry aeroplane dropping an experimental bomb or two, without the unpleasant company of jerry shells and free from apprehensive hours of uncertainty following a gas alarm from forward areas in an unfavourable wind. to be able to purchase from the inhabitants almost every conceivable necessity dear to the heart of the soldier, to mingle freely with "civies," to walk on hard, firm roads, theatres, cinemas, and to mingle nightly with other regiments compensated somewhat for what had passed. they were shyly proud of their cambrai record, said little of their deeds before other men, but withal treasured up every meagre speech of candid appreciation emanating spontaneously from those who had heard of, but hitherto had not met the 1st royal guernsey. stumpy, assisted by his diminutive middlesex pal, unofficially appointed himself an authority on normans and their place in european history. "it was like this yere," he informed a crowd of essex in the church army canteen one quiet evening, "we 'elped to make a 'ell of a mess of england an' the chap wot we fought for made us, us----" "granted you democratic self-government." "eh, yes, wot you said." "but you don't play games--football, cricket--in guernsey." "why don't we?' "you 'aven't any room ... you'd kick the ball over the side into the sea." the englishmen grinned. "wot do they wear--clothes or just a belt?" "don't s'pose they eat each other?" "wonder if any of 'em's black?" "wot do they live in--wigwams or caves?" stumpy, conscious of somehow saying the wrong thing and hurt by the shower of friendly sarcasm, shrugged his shoulders. "orl right," he said, "take the bloomin' advantage of the tiny isle--any'ow we 'ad the guts to come out yere." "that's right, kid," someone offered him a fag, "you were a democracy, a free country, long before england was england at all, before the british empire was dreamed of. you were the first elements of that empire...." "'ere," said stumpy, grinning with delight, "'ave a bloomin' drink." "your battalion saved a whole division at cambrai--." "ave a bloomin' nother!" even during this "rest" in pop., working parties were daily sent up on missions varying in detail but never in hardship or risk. they groused and growled, maintained that their physical condition was becoming worn down by the excess of work, insisted angrily that a rest should be a rest and not a camouflaged existence of heavy fatigues, pointed out that if jerry came over he would find them too utterly washed out to jab a bayonet into an ounce of butter, much less a man, and finally demanded in disgust "if they were the only available battalion in the army and whether they had to clean up the whole bloomin' front?" once within the hospitable walls of talbot house (can any tommy ever look back upon that oasis in war's grim desert without pangs of pleasant memories) and ensconced deep down in armchairs they forget working parties and fatigues. from there they penned their difficult missives home-bound, there they read and re-read what few lines of intimate information could be eagerly cleaned from those brief treasured letters from home over the waters to them. there was something almost tragic in the downcast look of those who turned their day's mail aimlessly over with anxious hands and at last shamefacedly requested some sunny-natured fellow to read out what was writ thereon. the awful reaping of ignorance, the great void of their apathetic existence! what pregnant apprehension of drawing blank pervaded the mind as the eye expectantly watched the fast dwindling mail in the hands of the n.c.o. bawling out each name. the exhilarating thrill of glad delight with which you realised your name and number had been called almost at the end of the file ... the sense of lonely desolation when there has been nothing for two days ... back to that torn copy of a magazine that has been read, re-read, and re-read again and again. but you can't settle down. they have forgotten you. you don't mind the hell of existence out here, but their letter was due yesterday and now----"bah!" bitterly, "let them bloomin' well forget." the ten hundred moved into steenvoorde and found themselves entangled in the intricacies of rehearsals for, and then later actual parade of ceremonial reviews. here also they had the opportunity of indulging in that salient portion of training that appealed to them as nothing else--"firing." undamaged by shell, cosy, they would have appreciated a lengthy spell with little to do, but rumours of an avalanche of troops that were manoeuvring behind the enemy lines became the predominant topic of discussion and lead to preparations for further movements. all material (by ceaseless working parties) had been withdrawn from forward areas. troops moving out to rest were maintained at points within a few miles of the line, and could be rushed up without appreciable delay into any gap that jerry might by pure weight of numbers force in the british lines--nothing was left to chance. it was pointed out that he would never attempt flanders mud after the british experience in the passchendaele-poelcapelle stunts of september-october, 1917. this was countered by that pivot of sentimental strategy--ypres. he wanted it--therefore.... he would not get it, anyhow! in the midst of all these conflicting rumours and views the normans marched to godewaersvelde and entrained there for a return to brandhoek. at red rose camp they prepared for another lengthy period in the line, about the second week in march moved up to another camp in a shelled area. jerry's offensive was expected at any moment; everybody was nervy: and each battalion as it came out of the line thanked its lucky stars that they had escaped the first onslaught. to even the ignorant strategist it was patent that either side could, by a preconceived attack, penetrate a mile or so into any chosen sector of a few miles frontage: but such a salient had little absolute value in a scheme of operations having the turning or breaking of a portion of front as objectives. a break had to be made of twenty or thirty miles and ten or twelve deep, at a stroke, otherwise with the wonderful elasticity of modern warfare the smashed-in line would reform, the gap be lost temporarily and by slight withdrawal of flanks the entire front straighten out and become once more a concrete whole. jerry knew it--and we knew he knew it. xiv march-april, 1918 in the line california camp, the normans' jumping off point for their in and out occupation of the trenches and working parties when not in the former, was composed of a collection of tiny huts constructed on similar lines to the nissen. the attractions peculiar to this obnoxious assortment of pygmy habitations were two: could not lie down straight in them, absolutely impossible to stand up. circular of roof, mode of entrance was an enforced elegant attitude on hands and knees wherein a decided advantage could be derived by going in lobster-wise--backwards, for there was not an ample space in which to turn about. jerry artillery had fitful moods of strafing. days of wild "searching" with a disgusting series of violent heavies bursting in all directions, blowing out candles with the concussion and in the darkness bringing about language-provoking situations that culminated in clumsy searches for matches ... light would reveal your watery rice careering smugly about in a boot and half a dozen fags floating sadly in the remnant of your mess tin of tea! bitter cold of night increased. boots, however soft and pliable when taken off, however well oiled, would be frozen hard and stiff in the morning as if cut in steel. to force these essential protections on called for painful, struggling efforts.... the only remedy was to sleep with the boots next the body. placing beneath a pillow was fatuously inadequate. they went into the line on a frontage beyond the actual passchendaele village and on the far side of the ridge looking down on jerry trenches. watery mud again everywhere ... a further protection of sandbags around the legs was not a success; trench feet became more and more prevalent and the germs of trench fever placed martel, robin and a long roll on the casualty list. eight days of it, followed by arduous fatigues and working parties in the reserve lines. trenches upon trenches in relays were with difficulty cut into a spongy soil, having apparently one fixed intention, e.g., to clog on to the spade in gummy lumps. redoubts were constructed under directions from r.e.'s and a series of strong points run up at brief intervals. when jerry decided to come over he would have an ample reception. the weather had developed a finer, milder tone, enabling the occupants of enemy observation balloons to peer down on the mass of men engaged in rapid construction of several reserve lines of defence. at times the fit would take him to play on these exposed areas with his artillery, raining on the troops a brief fierce barrage, blowing men, horses and waggons to fragments in all directions, and playing mad havoc amongst partially-completed earthworks ... but the work went on. another eight days in! night raids, patrols--casualties. jerry came over once in the early morning--he went back! a party of r.e.'s moving up from the south-ard brought with them tidings of what had occurred near st. quentin. "jerry started 'is little game. came over in thousands," the speaker was overwhelmed with eager inquiries. "anythin' doin'?", "did we wash 'im out?", "wot 'appened?" "one at a time. smashed in our line on a fifty mile front." "wot!" shouted in chorus. "yus. st. quentin fallen. fifth army fair smashed up." "good gawd!" "ten miles into our lines." "oh, 'ell!" "took thirty thousand prisoners--gawd knows 'ow many guns." "wot!" "thousands of casualties." "and 'ave we stopped 'im?" "no--still fallin' back." pessimism, something akin to consternation, found a hold upon the mental outlook of the troops in the sector. they had held an extraordinary unshakeable faith in the might of the army, in its absolute certainty of holding impregnable what had been theirs from 1916, and upon which all enemy attempts had realised no concrete success. and now, at one mighty knock-out blow, the army was in retreat on a fifty mile front! they glanced back upon ypres. he would try for it ... take it? day after day the black budget of "falling back", "prisoners", "using up our man-power," put the wind up them to such an extent that they began to curse at their own impotency and helplessness; to fret angrily at a forced comparative inactivity. why were they kept up there while "nothing was doing"? why were they not sent south to give a hand to the lads who were daily fighting a stubborn retreat against avalanches of german reserves? the passchendaele sector remained unusually quiet; little strafing occurred from either artillery, with the exception of a sunset entertainment organised daily for the benefit of ration parties and reliefs. aeroplanes, after prolonged reconnaissances far into jerry's territory, returned and the observers reported no movement or massing of enemy troops, guns or transport were taking place on a scale beyond the customary. no advance upon ypres was at the moment anticipated unless he still farther stretched out an already extended, far-flung battle zone. the working parties put their backs into the work with every intention of making a line upon which some thousands of huns would be rendered casualties before it capitulated. jerry, watching them do it, with ironical humour left them alone as if their labour were in vain, and long before the trenches would be required the british army would be cut in two. perhaps! fritz adopted a nasty habit in the form of lobbing over from fifteen miles away a new type of heavy shell, apparently under experimental observation. one fell among the guernsey cookers, tearing a chunk cut of sergt. le lacheur (he had been waiting for a blighty for months), wounding several and mauling a few into fearsome masses of red flesh. grouser--he had not been with the battalion long--found vent for his feelings. "ain't got any blarsted sense, them germans aint. war--it ain't war to smash up the bloomin' cookers ... 'ow the 'ell does 'e think we'll do about grub now?" "complain. grouser, ole son, to the c.o." (c.o.: commanding officer--the colonel.--draws the best paying winner in the battalion stakes and also the softest job). he was let in for a baiting. "send jerry a bar of chocolate in exchange for a new cooker." "ask 'em to confer the o.b.e. on the jerry wot fired the shell." "you needn't worry about the grub. grouser--you can live on nuts." "plenty of hay with the transport." "oh," grouser turned abruptly, "plenty of hay.... you found yer bloomin' natural fodder, eh! aye, ye're every bit such a donkey as ye look." "look 'ere, wot d'you take me for?" "take you for? wouldn't take you fer a bloomin' gift. we used to have one like you with our organ--'ad it on a chain." the ten hundred prepared after a last night in the line to move back during the first week in april for the long rest upon which their anticipations had been longingly concentrated for weeks. no battalion moved more than a few miles behind the sectors owing to the uncertainty of future enemy developments. his line of attack had been lengthened from both original flanks until at the lull in his scheme of offensive a length of over seventy miles had been attained. he was preparing for a second wild onslaught, again to the far south of passchendaele ... of the result everyone felt a little uncertain. it was obvious that sooner or later he would attempt a headlong rush upon those lines of communication with the home country--channel ports--so vital a factor in the efficient maintenance of the b.e.f. the normans came out. d company was sent on in the direction of proven, attained within a kilo of the town and was intercepted by a despatch rider, who carried with him orders for their immediate return. a stir of apprehensive uncertainty spread through the ranks. what had happened? surely they were not going to be rushed into the line somewhere ... they had only just come out. they turned, encountered the battalion at brandhoek. a fleet of lorries was awaiting them. something was on. a thunderstorm turned its lashing rain upon their unprotected forms, drenched them utterly and damped their spirits. a sense of some indefinable presentiment of future dimmer crept over the mind, that subtle consciousness of approaching death forced its black pessimism upon their thoughts. they watched the heavy grey clouds scuttling overhead, watched the rain dropping from off each man's steel helmet, and gazed across the long desolate stretch of watery earth, tangled debris and shattered cottages. shivering with the cold, wet, hungry and weary. an hour before, marching elated in the knowledge of a few days' freedom from the haunting knowledge of life's uncertainty--now they were in for something they all pregnantly felt would involve them in a slaughter that might place finis to the battalion. the cambrai survivors stared sadly into the closing gloom ... they had gone through rues vertes--could their luck hold twice! the lorries moved away ... the norman ten hundred went out again to hang-on or fall, to uphold the traditions dearly bought by those who had gone over the divide a few months before. if they could do it then, they could do it now. xv april 10-14, 1918 doulieu-estaires the ten hundred slept in their lorries at berquin before moving into billets. no sign of enemy activity presented itself apart from the incessant rumble of distant guns. a jerry 'plane came over on reconnaissance, taking little precaution and not flying high. they had unpleasant recollections of enemy 'planes, turned their rifles on him, and between c and d companies brought him down--they took the occupants prisoners. at five o'clock received orders to move up in the direction of doulieu in reserve. they dug in with the inadequate implement carried in all equipment, accompanied only by an unnatural quiet. no troops were falling back on them, no hurried retreat or artillery, and no fierce strafing from enemy guns. throughout the night they stared far away into the east watching for the enemy who was coming. the silence was still undisturbed, they waited with fast-beating pulse for the long rows of onward, sweeping grey.... dawn! and with it orders to move forward to doulieu itself and there fill in the gap. almost into the objective before they saw him. grey-coated forms swarmed for miles in relay upon relay of everincreasing rows, advanced with deadly certainty, and supported by an astonishing mass of machine-guns. the grim old spirit came to the fore. they rained in on the approaching waves a mad fire from smoking rifles and lewis guns. his pace slackened not one jot ... again the normans pumped in the lead until the hands blistered from hot rifles. futile! they had not the men to stop one-tenth of the foe moving in thousands over fields and hedges upon them. teeth clenched in agony. "curse you," they sobbed, "curse your numbers...." his machine-guns whined over into their ranks ten or twelve thousand rounds a minute along the frontage. men fell in huddled heaps across one another. the machine-gun barrage swept backwards and forwards over the first and second lines, sweeping and intercrossing in one mighty net ... the normans were ordered to fall back, make liaison with battalion relieving on either flank and dig in on a new line. again through the night they watched the pall before them, and again jerry made no sign. orders were given just after daybreak for a further retirement ... they marched back four or five kilos with heavy hearts. why not have fought to a standstill where they had first sighted him? they shrugged shoulders wearily, and turned to the task of digging in. he opened his machine-guns upon the thin row of khaki figures, a figure here and there fell forward upon the little spade into a grave he had prepared for himself. two young staffords collapsed side by side upon the turf and smiled fixedly up into the sky, six or eight holes perforating each chest. the bullets whined and whistled everywhere, conveying to the mind a huge swarm of bees. he tried a long sweep of low shots, just skirting the tops of the semi-completed excavations ... got home every twenty yards or so, clean through the neck or forehead. the normans settled down, opened fire steadily and played havoc amongst the advanced enemy machine-guns. his progress stopped, the opposing lines sniped at each other. the normans were in their element--they knew how to shoot. "'olding 'im up now." "yes. 'e can't shoot with 'is rifles." "no--seems to 'ave all bloomin' machine-guns." for two hours, they kept him pinned down to one position, wiped out his one brief rush and inspired within him an unholy fear or their rifles. they watched with fierce cunning the movements of fifty or so snipers and "light" machine-gunners creeping upon them under cover of long grasses ... a bloody fire was opened for ten minutes on the figures--the grass stained red. not one returned. a battalion on the norman right fell back under the weight of enemy forces, thereby exposing a guernsey flank.... another retirement and again a wild scramble across fields interlaced by row after row of irrigation canals conveying water in this wide net-like system over a large area from one main source of supply. to avoid the larger excavations men were wont to crowd into the roadways, make in a body for ready gateways and openings. upon these obvious points jerry concentrated a continuous stream of machine-gun fire; the casualties here were heaped up hideously in small masses and the blood from one man trickled over another. troops from half-a-dozen regiments, scattered confusedly in all directions, moved rearwards side by side. it was almost an impossibility to rejoin battalions--battalions!--a mere couple of hundred men and a few officers formed what after two days of fighting constituted a battalion. but they had to do the work of a full battalion--and they did! wounded fell despairingly, gazed with appealing eyes at the lines of ever distancing khaki, placed their rifles to one side and awaited the onrushing enemy tide. some few with what futile strength could be mustered by superhuman effort tottered and staggered uncertainly in the direction they dimly imagined their comrades had taken. one by one fell prey to exhaustion, dropped with a last frenzied sob unto the earth; some lay still and quiet, peppered by a second stream of lead. others, writhing in agony, dazed, mad, waited the jerry approach and picked off man after man until a bayonet thrust put finis to their last impotent struggles. in secluded corners a few bled slowly undiscovered, unthought of ... there for days they remained until the bodies--lockjaw, gangrene, loss of blood--were rolled together into one great hole or perchance buried apart, and for tombstone the late owner's rifle stuck into the earth and inscribed thereon that only too frequent epitath--an unknown british soldier! back, ever back! the disheartening realisation that he cannot be stayed for any lengthy period, that his reserves are undiminished and constantly moving up to fill the gaps made in his ranks, cast a heavy shadow of pessimism over the ragged, weary figures for ever moving westward. at lengthy intervals no sign of the grey figures anywhere met the eye, but the inevitable order to retreat was obeyed--grumbling, cursing. "wot the 'ell are we goin' back again for? there ain't any sign of jerry." "no, but 'e 'as got through too far to the south." "yes--an' we're moving back north-west now." "why?" "dunno. 'e's got round some'ow to the south." an hour or undisturbed quiet. nothing could be seen, no shells (his artillery was unable to keep pace with the rapidity of advance), no gas. then through the silence, from nowhere it seemed, a half-spent bullet whistled and buried itself with a spiteful "phut." after a pause ... a whine, accompanied by others, falling short. in the distance his machine-gunners and advanced screen of scouts appeared ... the whining merged into a constant buzzing, men coughed furiously and bent forward, fell awkwardly ... straightened out. here and there a khaki figure clutched fiercely at tufts of grass, writhed feverishly in one last desperate fight for breath, looked a sad farewell at their living comrades--a glance that went straight to the heart--and went their way into the warrior's hall in valhalla. from far down the flank a further movement rearward could be noticed spreading yard by yard until once more, weary of spirit, worn, hungry, you stood up somewhere in the stream of lead and retired. at nightfall he would be out of view. by morning his advanced posts would be sniping at the thin khaki line. night ... an ebony pall pierced by a score of brilliant burning houses. fantastic, grotesque. crimson glows upon which tired eyes rested unthinking, uncaring, the mind worn under the ceaseless repetition: "when will we stop? why don't they let us fight it out? god, we'd make a mess of him anyhow." then someone would address no one in particular: "wonder 'ow many we 'ave left?" "gawd knows. about a 'undred an' fifty." "see 'im toppling our lads out at verbequie?" "yes. an' by that meadow gate. it makes me blood boil to think they won't let us 'ave a go at 'im." "ah, well. i s'pose it will be my turn to-morrow." that is the crux of it: your turn to-morrow? who can tell ... what does it matter ... what is life after all? but the all-pervading ardour of youth's "will of life" whispers with a bitter realisation of what death really means that you want to live. never before has existence been so full of future possibilities, the wish for life so poignant! his overwhelming numerical superiority gave no evidence of slackening, his pressure on the gaping line of khaki continued unabated. no reserves, or hope of relief, were apparent. there was no alternative but to carry on day after day in continuous fighting retreat with very small numbers spread over a wide area. over the fields and meadows roamed farm cattle, some bleeding and running wildly about bellowing with fear. cows moaned in agony for the dire need of milking, but who was there to do it? in the farms were styes full of half-starved pigs, grunting and groaning with hideous effect. they were turned loose to fend for themselves, ran rampant over the carefully sown ground and growing potatoes--the sad results of months of painstaking effort. fowls fluttered and screamed with wild flapping wings, men seized the eggs and drank them down in a fierce famished hunger. along all the roads for miles streamed a piteous spectacle of old women, children and dogs. before them a plaintive little barrow of belongings, on the backs of the men small red bundles tied hastily together. wrinkled old men limped laboriously along on heavy sticks ... sometimes by the wayside a white-faced, white-haired old dame sat exhausted, crouching in fear over a poor little bundle; alone, trembling, deserted. the whine of the bullets crept nearer and troops began to pass. "'ere, mother, can't you get on?" not comprehending the words but fully grasping the meaning, the unhappy old head was shaken. a passing ambulance was stopped and the frail old form gently placed in with the wounded--sometimes. there was not always an ambulance. many a wrinkled, bent old man or woman, shrinking in fear by the roadside, were left in dire desolation to the mercy of their foe. some few old folks stood by their homes to the last, until the khaki rows were far across the fields away, and shot whistling about the eaves of the old thatched roof farm ... dotted here and there on their grass land a still britisher kept them company until the germans passed over and onward, collected the bodies, buried them. unshaven, tattered and unwashed, stumpy, lamed in the left foot, potted shot after shot at each retirement, aiming at no one target, but, as he observed. "even if i don't 'it 'im, i might puncture 'is bloomin' rum ration." "but wot are you aimin' at?" "nothin'. just 'igh in the air. like--that there. who knows: why it might just ketch ole kaiser bill in the bloomin' belly if 'e came up close 'nough." uncouth, uncultured, rough of manner, of speech. good-natured, full of courage, humour. stumpy ... short, fat and clumsy. withal a man, a warrior. before mid-day blood was spouting from out five vital wounds and in a few seconds faintness began to spread over him. his eyes filled with tears. "i feels bad," he said, "can't, can't the bleedin' be stopped? i don't want to go under ... think they can get me away before jerry comes? things some'ow ain't over clear: everything foggy." casey came over to him, white-faced and half-crying himself. "you're orl right, ole pal," he said, "not bleedin' much now." "no. but it's cloudy. d'you find it cloudy?" "yes. a 'ell of a mist creepin' up. want any water?" "no, but," with a faint grin, "got any rum?" "'ere you," an n.c.o. ran up and touched casey, "captain wants a runner. get a move on." "but poor ole stumpy yere----" "d'you 'ear wot i said. go on, 'op it, or i'll--well, put lead in yer." "orl right. so long, ole pal." "so long." stumpy tried hard to see him through the mistiness before his eyes, "but you'll get me away before jerry comes...." casualty list two weeks later: "pte.----." missing. april 12th. he is still unheard of, forgotten. his grave is undisturbed somewhere in peaceful loneliness. estaires and doulieu were several miles in the enemy lines, the normans entangled with staffords and middlesex converged back past bleu, moving as far as any one direction could be determined, approximately north-west. there seemed to be no officers left, few over fifty royal guernsey ranks could be counted. company headquarters were no more, the scattered few had no means of access to their c.o., joined in and formed fighting blocks with mutual consent and without actual leaders, and carried on the hourly withdrawal. from out this remnant lance-corporal hamel scrambled away to a dressing station, two ominous trickles of blood streaming down his legs. winter gregg (m.m.), too, got away in a semi-conscious condition. one of the few trench mortar shells burst within a yard of a tall youngster. unscathed, blackened, he turned with a piercing scream. "god, oh my god! where is the sun? the light 'as gone out. someone, his voice rose to a mad shriek, 'someone come 'ere. i can't see. i'm blind, i'm blind, oh i'm blind." he threw himself on the earth and sobbed in fearful agony. they helped him to his feet, led him away, but there echoed back his remorseful wail; "i'm blind, blind!" that gets you. blind! better death.... the hours sped. men fell with none to replace them, and in the knowledge that the enemy had fresh troops, was well supplied, and in his rear a great artillery straining forward to take part in the slaughter, aeroplanes above, the tail-end of a few decimated battalions fought on against the hopeless odds before them. as long as a man had life in his body, rifle and shot, he used them to advantage. the next britisher might be forty yards away or more, but until he was ordered to retire he would ... "'ang on like 'ell to that there strip." the staffords after three days of it, through the whole of which period they had stuck doggedly, pluckily, to their task, had dwindled down to a scattered few on the nightfall of the 15th april. forty, perhaps fifty, completely exhausted, filthy and tattered normans still clung about their c.o. on a frontage a few miles south of merris. the very mechanical stupor that at last commenced to give way beneath unceasing hardship. nature demanded sleep. not the brief, wakeful moments snatched at intervals in the night, but sleep, long, quiet, undisturbed. from an observation balloon high in the air above its motor trolley jerry observers reported on the shattered remnant still holding out. he pressed home his advantage upon the tired troops ... rifles grew hot. the few normans were again forced back. relief by australians was effected near merris. the tiny, devastated string of normans (53) came out. but in a situation of acute urgency they were still used to construct trenches upon which withdrawal by the newly engaged divisions could be made. the brigadier. g.o.c., 80th brigade, a few weeks later bade farewell to the little force in a speech that sent a wild thrill of pride throughout the small battalion. in their honour the divisional band played them on their march to a station ("ebblingham"), from which they entrained for g.h.q., where they were to take over duties from the h.a.c. and thus the passing from the great undertaking! farewell, norman warriors who this night in valhalla sing of mighty deeds of valour from high with the anses. farewell, a sad farewell, to for ever lost echoes to ten hundred voiced raised in rallying chorus to the swing of square shoulders and the ring of manly feet. the "old order changeth." away from the strong fray ... free life ... laughter, glamour, song ... the great open ... the men.... back to the little world, its little things, to its little life. see ye masnières canal a flood and where yon green graves lay? there norman warriors fled to their god ne'er more to glimpse the day. but writ there, first, a name in blood- norman ten hundred. at doulieu, the night birds flits across yon blue-gray water. and in dusk ghost warriors sit- wraiths of a fearsome slaughter. there too in blood the name is writ- norman ten hundred. and thus there the battle's flame laid men out fast and low, so young sarnia died, but fame cast o'er their graves its glow, and honours wove about the name norman ten hundred. birds of guernsey and the neighbouring islands alderney, sark, jethou, herm; being a small contribution to the ornitholony of the channel islands by cecil smith, f.z.s., member of the british ornithologist's union. london: r.h. porter, 6, tenterden street, hanover square. 1879. preface. though perhaps not possessing the interest to the ornithologist which lundy island (the only breeding-place of the gannet in the south-west of england) or the scilly islands possess, or being able to produce the long list of birds which the indefatigable mr. gäetke has been able to do for his little island, heligoland, the avifauna of guernsey and the neighbouring islands is by no means devoid of interest; and as little has hitherto been published about the birds of guernsey and the neighbouring islands, except in a few occasional papers published by miss c.b. carey, mr. harvie browne, myself, and a few others, in the pages of the 'zoologist,' i make no excuse for publishing this list of the birds, which, as an occasional visitor to the channel islands for now some thirty years, have in some way been brought to my notice as occurring in these islands either as residents, migrants, or occasional visitants. channel island specimens of several of the rarer birds mentioned, as well as of the commoner ones, are in my own collection; and others i have seen either in the flesh or only recently skinned in the bird-stuffers' shops. for a few, of course, i have been obliged to rely on the evidence of others; some of these may appear, perhaps, rather questionable,--as, for instance, the osprey,--but i have always given what evidence i have been able to collect in each case; and where evidence of the occurrence was altogether wanting, i have thought it better to omit all mention of the bird, though its occasional occurrence may seem possible. i have confined myself in this list to the birds of guernsey and the neighbouring islands--sark, alderney, jethou and herm; in fact to the islands included in the bailiwick of guernsey. i have done this as i have had no opportunity of personally studying the birds of jersey, only having been in that island once some years ago, and then only for a short time, and not because i think a notice of the birds of jersey would have been devoid of interest, though whether it would have added many to my list maybe doubtful. professor ansted's list, included in his large and very interesting work on the channel islands, is hitherto the only attempt at a regular list of the birds of the channel islands; but as he, though great as a geologist, is no ornithologist, he was obliged to rely in a great measure on information received from others, and this apparently was not always very reliable, and he does not appear to have taken much trouble to sift the evidence given to him. professor ansted himself states that his list is necessarily imperfect, as he received little or no information from some of the islands; in fact, guernsey and sark appear to be the only two from which much information had been received. this is to be regretted, as it has made the notice of the distribution of the various birds through the islands, which he has denoted by the letters _a, e, i, o, u_[1] appended to the name of each bird, necessarily faulty. the ornithological notes, however, supplied by mr. gallienne are of considerable interest, and are generally pretty reliable. it is rather remarkable, however, that professor ansted has not always paid attention to these notes in marking the distribution of the birds through the various islands. no doubt many of the birds included in professor ansted's list were included merely on the authority of specimens in the museum of the mechanics' institute, which at one time was a pretty good one; and had sufficient care been taken to label the various specimens correctly as to place and date, especially distinguishing local specimens from foreign ones, of which there were a good many, would have been a very interesting and useful local museum; as it is, the interest of this museum is considerably deteriorated. some of the birds in the museum are confessedly foreign, having been brought from various parts of the world by guernsey men, who when abroad remembered the museum in their own island, and brought home specimens for it. others, as mr. gallienne, who during his life took much interest in the museum, himself told me had been purchased from various bird-stuffers, especially from one in jersey; and no questions were asked as to whether the specimens bought were local or set-up from skins obtained from the continent or england. amongst those so obtained may probably be classed the blue-throated warblers, included in professor ansted's list and marked as jersey (these mr. gallienne himself told me he believed to be continental and not genuine channel island specimens), the great sedge warbler, the meadow bunting, the green woodpecker, and perhaps a few others. this museum, partly from want of interest being taken in it and partly from want of money, has never had a very good room, and has been shuffled and moved about from one place to another, and consequently several birds really valuable, as they could be proved to be genuine channel island specimens, have been lost and destroyed; in fact, had it not been for the care and energy of miss c.b. carey, who took great pains to preserve what she found remaining of the collection, and place it in some sort of order, distinguishing by a different coloured label those specimens which could be proved to be channel island (in doing this she worked very hard, and received very little thanks or encouragement, but on the contrary met with a considerable amount of genuine obstructiveness), the whole of the specimens in the museum would undoubtedly have been lost; as it is, a good many valuable local specimens--valuable as being still capable of being proved to be genuine channel island specimens--have been preserved, and a good nucleus kept for the foundation of a new museum, should interest in the subject revive and the local authorities be disposed to assist in its formation. in my notices of each bird i have mentioned whether there is a specimen in the museum, and also whether it is included in professor ansted's list, and if so in which of the islands he has marked it as occurring. no doubt the ornithology of the channel islands, as is the case in many counties of england, has been considerably changed by drainage works, improved cultivation, and road-making; much alteration of this sort i can see has taken place during the thirty years which i have known the islands as an occasional visitor. but mr. macculloch, who has been resident in the islands for a much longer period--in fact, he has told me nearly double--has very kindly supplied me with the following very interesting note on the various changes which have taken place in guernsey during the long period he has lived in that island; he says, "i can well recollect the cutting of most of the main roads, and the improvement, still going on, of the smaller ones. it was about the beginning of this century that the works for reclaiming the braye du valle were undertaken; before that time the clos du valle[2] was separated from the mainland by an arm of the sea, left dry at low water, extending from st. samson's to the vale church. this was bordered by salt marshes only, covered occasionally at spring tides by the sea, some of which extended pretty far inland. the meadows adjoining were very imperfectly drained, as indeed some still are, and covered with reeds and rushes, forming excellent shelter for many species of aquatic birds. now, as you know, by far the greater part of the land is well cultivated and thickly covered with habitations. the old roads were everywhere enclosed between high hedges, on which were planted rows of elms; and the same kind of hedge divided the fields and tenements. every house, too, in those days had its orchard, cider being then universally drunk; and the hill-sides and cliffs were covered with furze brakes, as in all country houses they baked their own bread and required the furze for fuel. now all that is changed. the meadows are drained and planted with brocoli for the early london market, to be replaced by a crop of potatoes at the end of the summer. the trees are cut down to let in the sun. since the people have taken to gin-drinking, cider is out of favour and the orchards destroyed. the hedges are levelled to gain a few perches of ground, and replaced in many places by stone walls; the furze brakes rooted up, and the whole aspect and nature of the country changed. is it to be wondered at that those kinds of birds that love shelter and quiet have deserted us? you know, too, how every bird--from the wren to the eagle--is popped at as soon as it shows itself, in places where there are no game laws and every man allowed to carry a gun." this interesting description of the changes--agricultural and otherwise--which have taken place in the islands, especially guernsey, during the last fifty or sixty years (for which i have to offer mr. macculloch my best thanks), gives a very good general idea of many of the alterations that have taken place in the face of the country during the period above mentioned; but does not by any means exhaust them, as no mention is made of the immense increase of orchard-houses in all parts of guernsey, which has been so great that i may fairly say that within the last few years miles of glasshouses have been built in guernsey alone: these have been built mostly for the purpose of growing grapes for the london market. these orchard-houses have, to a certain extent, taken the place of ordinary orchards and gardens, which have been rooted up and destroyed to make place for this enormous extent of glass. but what appeared to me to have made the greatest change, and has probably had more effect on the ornithology of the island, especially of that part known as the vale, is the enormous number of granite quarries which are being worked there (luckily the beautiful cliffs have hitherto escaped the granite in those parts, probably not being so good); but in the vale from st. samson's to fort doyle, and from there to the vale church, with the exception of l'ancresse common itself, which has hitherto escaped, the whole face of the country is changed by quarry works and covered with small windmills used for pumping the water from the quarries. these quarry works and the extra population brought by them into the island, all of whom carry guns and shoot everything that is fit to eat or is likely to fetch a few "doubles" in the market, have done a good deal to thin the birds in that part of the islands, especially such as are in any way fit for sale or food, and probably have done more to make a change in the ornithology of that part of the island than all the agricultural changes mentioned by mr. macculloch. indeed, i am rather sceptical as to the agricultural changes above described having produced so much change in the avifauna of the islands during the last fifty years as mr. macculloch appears to think; there is still a great deal of undrained or badly drained land in the island--especially about the vale, the grand mare and l'eree--which might still afford a home for moorhens, water rails, and even bitterns, and all that class of wading birds which delight in swampy land and reed beds. though no doubt, as mr. macculloch said, many orchards have been destroyed to make room for more profitable crops or for orchard-houses, still there are many orchards left in the island. i think, however, many, if not all the cherry orchards (amongst which the golden orioles apparently at one time luxuriated) are gone. there is also still a great deal of hedgerow timber, none of it indeed very large, but in places very thick; in fact, i could point out miles of hedges in guernsey where the trees, mostly elm, grow so thick together that it would be nearly impossible to pick out a place where one could squeeze one's horse between the trees without rubbing one's knees on one side or the other, probably on both, against them, if one found it necessary to ride across the country. true, on a great extent of the higher part of the island, all along on both sides of what is known as the forest road, there is little or no hedgerow timber, the fields here being divided by low banks with furze growing on the top of them. furze brakes also are still numerous, the whole of the flat land on the top of the cliffs and the steep valleys and slopes down to the sea on the south and east side of the island, from fermain bay to pleimont, being almost uninterrupted wild land covered with heather, furze, and bracken; besides this wild furze land, there are several thick furze brakes inland in different parts of the island. all these places seem to me to have remained almost without change for years. the furze, however, never grows very high, as it is cut every few years for fuel; in consequence of this, however, it is more beautiful in blooming in the spring than if it had been allowed several years' growth, covering the whole face of the ground above the cliffs like a brilliant yellow carpet; but being kept so short, it is not perhaps so convenient for nesting purposes as if it was allowed a longer growth. the guernsey bird act, which applies to all the islands in the bailiwick, and has been in force for some few years, seems to me to have had little effect on the numbers of the sea-birds of the district, though it includes the eggs as well as the birds, except perhaps to increase the number of herring gulls and shags (which were always sufficiently numerous) in their old breeding-stations, and perhaps to have added a few new breeding-stations. these two birds scarcely needed the protection afforded by the act, as their nests are placed amongst very inaccessible rocks where very few nests can be reached without the aid of a rope, and consequently but little damage was done beyond a few young birds being shot soon after they had left the nest while they were flappers, and the numbers were fully kept up; other birds, however, included in the act, and not breeding in quite such inaccessible places, seem to gain but little advantage from it, as nests of the lesser black-backed gulls, terns, oystercatchers and puffins are ruthlessly robbed in a way that bids fair before long to exterminate all four species as breeding birds; perhaps, also, the increase in the number of herring gulls does something to diminish the numbers of other breeding species, especially the lesser black-backs, as herring gulls are great robbers both of eggs and young birds. the act itself, after reciting that "le nombre des oiseaux de mer sur les côtes des isles de cet bailliage a considerablement diminué depuis plusieurs années; que les dits oiseaux sont utiles aux pêcheurs, en ce qu'ils indiquent les parages ou les poissons se trouvent; que les dits oiseaux sont utiles aux marins en ce qu'ils annoncent pendant la durée des brouillards la proximite des rochers," goes on to enact as follows:--"il est défendu de prendre, enlever ou détruire les ceufs des oiseaux de mer dans toute i'entendue de la jurisdiction de cette isle, sur la peine d'une amende qui ne sera pas moindre de sept livres tournois et n'excédera pas trente livres tournois."[3] sec. 2 enacts, "depuis ce jour[4] au 15 octobre prochain, il est défendu de tuer, blesser, prendre ou chasser les oiseaux de mer dans toute l'entendue de la jurisdiction de cette isle." sec. 3, "ceux qui depuis ce jour au 15 octobre prochain auront été trouvés en possession d'un oiseau de mer récemment tué, blessé ou pris, ou qui auront été trouvés en possession de plumage frais appartenant d'un oiseau de mer seront censés avoir tué, blessé ou pris tel oiseau de mer sauf è eux de prouver le contraire. pareillement ceux qui depuis ce jour au 15 octobre prochain auront été trouvés en possession d'un oeuf de l'annee d'un oiseau de mer seront censés avoir pris et enleve le dit oeuf sauf à eux de prouver le contraire." the penalty in each case is the same as in section 1. section 4 contains the list of the oiseaux de mer which come under the protection of the act, which is as follows:--les mauves mouettes, pingouins, guillemots, cormorans, barbelotes, hirondelles de mer, pies-marants, petrel, plongeons, grebes, puffins, dotterells, alouettes de mer, toumpierres, gannets, courlis et martin pêcheur. as far as the eggs of many of the species actually breeding in the islands are concerned, this act seems to be a dead letter: the only birds of any size whose eggs are not regularly robbed are the herring gulls and shags, and they take sufficient care of themselves; were the act strictly enforced it would probably be found that there would be--as would be the case in england--a good deal of opposition to this part of it, which would greatly interfere with what appears to be a considerable article of food with many of the population. probably the only compromise which would work, and could be rigidly enforced, would be to fix a later date for the protection of the eggs--say as late as the 15th june; this would allow those who wanted to rob the eggs for food to take the earlier layings, and the birds would be able to bring up their second or third broods in peace; and probably the fishermen and others, who use the eggs as an article of consumption, would be glad to assist in carrying out such an act as this, as they would soon find the birds increase so much that they would be able to take as many eggs by the middle of june as they do now in the whole year, especially the black-back gulls and the puffins, which are the birds mostly robbed,--the latter of which are certainly decreasing considerably in numbers in consequence. this plan is successfully carried out by many private owners of the large breeding-stations of the gannets, eider duck, and other sea-birds in the north of england and scotland. of course, it must not be supposed that all the birds mentioned in the act whose eggs are protected breed in the islands, or anywhere within ten or fifteen degrees of latitude of the islands; in fact, a great many of them are not there at all during the breeding-season, except perhaps an occasional wounded bird which has been unable to join its companions on their migratory journey, or a few non-breeding stragglers. it has often struck me that a small but rigidly collected and enforced gun-tax would be a more efficacious protection--not only to the oiseaux de mer, but also to the inland birds, many of which are quite as much in want of protection though not included in the act--than the sea-bird protection act is. i am glad to see that there is some chance of this being carried out, for, while this work was going through the press, i see by the newspaper ('gazette officielle de guernsey' for the 26th march, 1879) that the bailiff had then just issued a _billet d'etat_ which contained a "projet de loi" on the subject, to be submitted to the states at their next meeting; and in concluding its comments on this _projet de loi_ the gazette says, "il n'est que juste en fait que ceux qui veulent se lier au plaisir de la chasse paient pour cette fantaisie et que par ce moyen le trop grand nombre de nos chasseurs maladroits et inexpérimentes se voit réduit au grand avantage de nos fermiers et de nos promeneurs;" and probably also to the advantage of the chasseurs themselves. in regard to the nomenclature, i have done the best i can to follow the rule laid down by the british association; but not living in london, and consequently not having access to a sufficiently large ornithological library to enable me to search out the various synonyms for myself and ascertain the exact dates, i have therefore been obliged to rely on the best authorities whose works i possess, and accept the name given by them. in doing this, i have no doubt i have been quite as correct as i should have been had i waded through the various authors who have written on the subject, as i have invariably accepted the name adopted by professor newton in his edition of yarrell, and by mr. dresser in his 'birds of europe', as far as these works are yet complete: for the birds not yet included in either i have for the most part taken the scientific names from mr. howard saunders's 'catalogue des oiseaux du midi de l'espagne,' published in the 'proceedings' of the société zoologique de france; and for the names of the gulls and terns i have entirely followed mr. howard saunders's papers on those birds published in the 'proceedings' of our own zoological society, for permission to use which, and for other assistance,--especially in egg-hunting,--i have to give him my best thanks. as french is so much spoken in guernsey and the other islands included in my district, i have (wherever i have been able to ascertain it) given the french name of each bird, as it may be better known to my guernsey readers than either the english or the scientific name. i have also, where there is one and i have been able to ascertain it, mentioned the local name in the course of my notes on each bird. it now only remains to give my best thanks to the various friends who have assisted me, especially to mr. macculloch, who, though he says he is no naturalist, has supplied me with various very interesting notes, which he has taken from time to time of ornithological events which have occurred in guernsey, and from which i have drawn rather largely; and i have, also, again to thank him for the interesting accounts he has given me of the various changes--agricultural and otherwise--which have taken place during his memory, and which may have had some effect on the ornithology of the islands, especially of guernsey. my thanks are also due to col. l'estrange for the assistance he has given me in egg-hunting, and also to captain hubback for his notes from alderney during the times he was quartered there. birds of guernsey. 1. white-tailed eagle. _haliaeetus albicilla_, linnsaeus. french, "aigle pygarque," "pygarque ordinaire."--the white-tailed eagle is an occasional but by no means uncommon visitant to all the islands. i have seen specimens from alderney, guernsey, and herm, and have heard of its having been killed in sark more than once. it usually occurs in the autumn, and, as a rule, has a very short lease of life after its arrival in the islands, which is not to be wondered at, as it is considered, and no doubt is, mischievous both to sheep and poultry; and in so thickly populated a country, where every one carries a gun, a large bird like the white-tailed eagle can hardly escape notice and consequent destruction for any length of time. it might, however, if unmolested, occasionally remain throughout the winter, and probably sometimes wanders to the islands at that time, as mr. harvie brown records ('zoologist' for 1869, p. 1591) one as having been killed, poisoned by strychnine, in herm in the month of january. this was, no doubt, a late winter visitant, as it is hardly possible that the bird can have escaped for so long a time, as it would have done had it visited the islands at its usual time, october or november. all the channel island specimens of the white-tailed eagle which i have seen have been young birds of the first or second year, in the immature plumage in which the bird is known as the sea eagle of bewick, and in which it is occasionally mistaken for the golden eagle, which bird has never, i believe, occurred in the islands. of course in the adult plumage, when this bird has its white tail and head, no such mistake could occur, but in the immature plumage in which the bird usually makes its appearance such a mistake does occasionally happen, and afterwards it becomes difficult to convince the owner that he has not a golden eagle; in fact he usually feels rather insulted when told of his mistake, and ignores all suggestions of anything like an infallible test, so it may be as well to mention that the birds may be distinguished in any state of plumage and at any age by the tarsus, which in the white-tailed eagle is bare of feathers and in the golden eagle is feathered to the junction of the toes. i have one in my possession shot at bordeaux harbour on the 14th of november, 1871, and i saw one in the flesh at mr. couch's, the bird-stuffer, which had been shot at alderney on the 2nd of november in the same year; and mr. macculloch writes to me that one was wounded and taken alive in the parish of the forest in guernsey in 1845. it was said to be one of a pair, and he adds--"i have known several instances of its appearance since both here (guernsey) and in herm," but unluckily he gives no dates and could not remember at what time of year any of the occurrences he had noted had taken place. this is to be regretted, as although the bird occurs almost every autumn--indeed, so frequently as to render mention of further instances of its occurrence at that time of year unnecessary--its occurrence in the spring is rare, and some of those noted by mr. macculloch might have been at that time of year. as it is, i only know of one spring occurrence, and that was reported to me by mr. couch as having taken place at herm on the 23rd of march, 1877. the white-tailed eagle is included in professor ansted's list, but its range in the islands is restricted to guernsey. there is one in the museum, probably killed in guernsey, in the plumage in which the channel island specimens usually occur, but no note is given as to locality or date. 2. osprey. _pandion halioeetus_, linnaeus. french, "balbusard."--i have never met with the osprey myself in the channel islands, nor have i, as far as i remember, seen a channel island specimen. i include it, however, on the authority of a note kindly sent to me by mr. macculloch, who says:--"an osprey was shot at st. samsons, in guernsey, on the 29th of october, 1868. i cannot, however, say whether at the time it was examined by a competent naturalist, and as both the osprey and the white-tailed eagle are fishers, a mistake may have been made in naming it." of course such a mistake as suggested is possible, but as the guernsey fishermen and gunners, especially the st. samsons men, are well acquainted with the white-tailed eagle, i should not think it probable that the mistake had been made. the bird, however, cannot be considered at all common in the islands; there is no specimen in the guernsey museum, and mr. couch has never mentioned to me having had one through his hands, or recorded it in the 'zoologist,' as he would have done had he had one; neither does mrs. jago (late miss cumber), who used to do a good deal of stuffing in guernsey about thirty years ago, remember having had one through her hands. there can be no reason, however, why it should not occasionally occur in the islands, as it does so both on the french and english side of the channel. the wonder rather is that it is so rare as it appears to be. the osprey, however, is mentioned in professor ansted's list, and only marked as occurring in guernsey. 3. greenland falcon. _falco candicans_, gmelin.--i was much surprised on my last visit to alderney, on the 27th of june, 1878, on going into a small carpenter's shop in the town, whose owner, besides being a carpenter, is also an amateur bird-stuffer, though of the roughest description, to find, amongst the dust of his shop, not only the purple heron, which i went especially to see, and which is mentioned afterwards, but a young greenland falcon which he informed me had been shot in that island about eighteen months ago. this statement was afterwards confirmed by the person who shot the bird, who was sent for and came in whilst i was still in the shop. unfortunately, neither the carpenter nor his friend who shot the bird had made any note of the date, and could only remember that the one had shot the bird in that island about eighteen months ago and the other had stuffed it immediately after. this would bring it to the winter of 1876-77, or, more probably, the late autumn of 1876. in the course of conversation it appeared to me that the snow falcon--as they called this bird--was not entirely unknown to the carpenter or his friend, though neither could remember at the time another instance of one having been killed in that island. it is, however, by no means improbable that either this species or the next mentioned, or both, may have occurred in the islands before, as professor ansted, though he gives no date or locality, includes the gyr falcon in his list of channel island birds. as all three of the large northern white falcons were at one time included under the name of gyr falcons, and, as professor ansted gives no description of the bird mentioned by him, it is impossible to say to which species he alluded. we may fairly conclude, however, that it was either the present species or the iceland falcon, as it could hardly have been the darker and less wandering species, the norway falcon, the true gyr falcon of falconers, _falco gyrfalco_ of linnaeus, which does not wander so far from its native home, and has never yet, as far as is at present known, occurred in any part of the british islands, and certainly not so far south as the channel islands. this latter, indeed, is an extremely southern latitude for either the greenland or iceland falcon, the next being in cornwall, from which county both species have been recorded by mr. rodd. neither species, however, is recorded as having occurred in any of the neighbouring parts of france. 4. iceland falcon. _falco islandus_, gmelin.--an iceland falcon was killed on the little island of herm on the 11th of april, 1876, where it had been seen about for some time, by the gamekeeper. it had another similar bird in company with it, and probably the pair were living very well upon the game-birds which had been imported and preserved in that island, as the keeper saw them kill more than one pheasant before he shot this bird. the other fortunately escaped. the bird which was killed is now in my possession, and is a fully adult iceland falcon, and mr. couch, the bird-stuffer who skinned it, informed me a male by dissection. though to a certain extent i have profited by it, so far as to have the only channel island example of the iceland falcon in my possession, i cannot help regretting that this bird was killed by the keeper, as it seems to me not impossible that the two birds being together in the island so late as the 11th of april, and certainly one, probably both, being adult, and there being plenty of food for them, might, if unmolested, have bred in the island. perhaps, however, this is too much to have expected so far from their proper home. it would, however, have been interesting to know how late the birds would have remained before returning to their northern home; but the breeding-season for the pheasants was beginning, and this was enough for the keeper, as he had actually seen two or three pheasants--some hens--killed before he shot the falcon. as these falcons can only be considered very rare accidental visitants to the islands, it may be interesting to some of my readers to mention that they may distinguish them easily by colour, the greenland, _falco candicans_, being always the most white, and the norway bird--the gyr falcon of falconers--being the darkest, the iceland falcon (the present species) being intermediate. this is generally a good guide at all ages, but occasionally there may be some difficulty in distinguishing young birds, especially as between the iceland and the norway falcon. in a doubtful case in the channel islands, however, it would always be safer to consider the bird an iceland rather than a norway falcon. 5. peregrine falcon. _falco peregrinus_, tunstall. french, "faucon pèlerin."--the peregrine can now, i think, only be considered an autumnal visitant to the islands, though, if not shot or otherwise destroyed, it would, no doubt, remain throughout the winter, and might perhaps have been resident, as mr. macculloch sends me a note of one killed in herm in december. all the channel island specimens i have seen have been young birds of the year, and generally killed in october or november. adult birds, no doubt, occasionally occur, but they are comparatively rare, and it certainly does not breed anywhere in the islands at present, though i see no reason why it should not have done so in former times, as there are many places well suited to it, and a constant supply of sea-birds for food. mr. macculloch also seems to be of opinion that the peregrine formerly bred in the islands, as he says, speaking, however, of the _falconidae_ generally, "there must have been a time when some of the species were permanent residents, for the high pyramidal rock south of the little island of jethou bears the name of 'la fauconnière,' evidently denoting that it must have been a favourite resort of these birds, and there are other rocks with the same name." certainly the rock here mentioned looks much like a place that would be selected by the peregrine for breeding purposes, but that must have been before the days of excursion steamers once or twice a week to jethou and herm. occasionally a young peregrine is made to do duty as a lanner, and is recorded in the local papers accordingly (see 'star' for november 11th, 1876, copying, however, a jersey paper), but in spite of these occasional notes there is no satisfactory reason for supposing that the true lanner has ever occurred in either of the islands. the birds, however, certainly resemble each other to a certain extent, but the young lanner in which state it would be most likely to occur, may always be distinguished from the young peregrine by its whiter head, and the adult has more brown on the head and neck. the peregrine is included in professor ansted's list, but only marked as occurring in guernsey and sark. there is no specimen at present in the museum. 6. hobby. _falco subbuteo_, linnaeus. french, "le hobereau." the hobby can only be considered as a rather rare occasional visitant, just touching the islands on its southern migration in the autumn, and late in the autumn, for mr. macculloch informs me that a hobby was killed in the islands, probably guernsey, in november, 1873, and mr. couch, writing to me on the 10th of november, told me he had had a hobby brought to him on the 8th of the same month. both of these occurrences seem rather late, but probably the hobby only touches the islands for a very short time on passage, and quite towards the end of the migratory period. i do not know of any instance of the hobby having occurred in the islands on its northern migration in the spring, or of its remaining to breed. it is included in professor ansted's list, and only marked as occurring in guernsey. there is no specimen in the museum. 7. merlin. _falco aesalon_,[5] bris., 1766. french, "faucon emérillon."--the pretty little merlin is a much more common autumnal visitant to the islands than the hobby, but, like the peregrine, the majority of instances are young birds of the year which visit the islands on their autumnal migration. when i was in guernsey in november, 1875, two merlins, both young birds, were brought in to mr. couch's. both were shot in the vale, and i saw a third near cobo, but did not shoot it. this also was a young bird. in some years merlins appear to be more numerous than in others, and this seems to have been one of the years in which they were most numerous. unlike the hobby, however, the merlin does occasionally visit the islands in the spring, as i saw one at mr. jago's, the bird-stuffer in guernsey, which had been killed at herm in the spring of 1876. this is now in the collection of mr. maxwell, the present owner of herm. though the merlin visits the islands both in the spring and autumn, i do not know that there is any instance of its having remained to breed, neither do i know of an occurrence during the winter. in the 'zoologist' for 1875 mr. couch, in a communication dated november 29th, 1874, says--"a merlin--a female--was shot in the marais, which had struck down a water rail a minute or two before it was shot. after striking down the rail the merlin flew into a tree, about ten yards from which the man who shot it found the rail dead. he brought me both birds. the skin of the rail was broken from the shoulder to the back of the skull." the more common prey, however, of the merlin during the time it remains in the islands is the ring dotterell, which at that time of year is to be found in large flocks mixed with purres and turnstones in all the low sandy or muddy bays in the islands. the merlin is included in professor ansted's list, but only marked as occurring in guernsey. there is no specimen in the museum at present. 8. kestrel. _falco tinnunculus_, linnaeus. french, "faucon cresserelle."--the kestrel is by far the commonest hawk in the islands, and is resident throughout the year. i do not think that its numbers are at all increased during the migratory season. it breeds in the rocky parts of all the islands. the kestrel does not, however, show itself so frequently in the low parts--even in the autumn--as on the high cliffs, so probably ring dotterell, purres, and turnstones do not form so considerable a part of its food as they do of the merlin. skylarks, rock and meadow pipits, and, in the summer, wheatears, with a few rats and mice, seem to afford the principal food of the kestrel, and to obtain these it has not to wander far from its breeding haunts. the kestrel is quite as common in alderney and herm, and even in the little island of jethou, as it is in guernsey and sark. one or two pairs, perhaps more, breed on the before-mentioned rock close to jethou "la fauconnière," though a few pairs of kestrels breeding there would scarcely have been sufficient to give it its name. it is mentioned in professor ansted's list, but only marked as occurring in guernsey and sark. there are two specimens, a male and female, in the museum. 9. sparrowhawk. _accipiter nisus_, linnaeus. french, "l'epervier," "tiercelet."--the sparrowhawk, though a resident species and breeding in the islands, is by no means so common as the kestrel. in fact, it must certainly be considered rather a rare bird, which perhaps is not to be wondered at, as it is a more tree-breeding bird and less given to nesting amongst the rocks than the kestrel. it does so sometimes, however, as i saw one fly out of some ivy-covered rocks near petit bo bay the last time i was in the islands on the 27th of may, 1878. i am certain this bird had a nest there, though the place was too inaccessible to be examined closely. the trees, however, at the vallon or woodlands would be much more likely nesting-places, especially as it might have an opportunity of appropriating a deserted nest of a magpie or a wood pigeon, rather a favourite nesting-place of the sparrowhawk. professor ansted includes the sparrowhawk in his list, but confines it to guernsey and sark; and probably, as a resident and breeding bird, he is right as far as my district is concerned, but i should think it must occasionally occur both in alderney and herm, though i have never seen a specimen from either island, nor have i seen the bird about alive in either. there is one specimen in the museum. 10. common buzzard. _buteo vulgaris_, leach. french, "buse."--the buzzard is a tolerably regular, and by no means uncommon, autumnal visitant, specimens occurring from some of the islands almost every autumn. but it is, i believe, an autumnal visitant only, as i do not know of a single specimen taken at any other time of year, nor can i find a record of one. i have seen examples in the flesh from both alderney and herm, in both of which islands it occurs at least as frequently as it does in guernsey, though still only as an autumnal visitant. it is included in professor ansted's list, but only marked as occurring in guernsey, and there is one specimen in the museum. 11. roughlegged buzzard. _buteo lagopus_, gmelin. french, "archibuse pattue" or "buse pattue."--though its visits seem not so absolutely confined to the autumn as the common buzzard, the rough-legged buzzard is a much more uncommon visitant to the channel islands, and can only be looked upon as a rare occasional straggler. mr. macculloch informs me that one was killed near l'hyvreuse, which is perhaps now more commonly known as the new ground, in guernsey, about christmas, 1870, and i found one at the bird-stuffer and carpenter's shop at alderney, which had been shot by his friend who shot the greenland falcon, but i could get no information about the date except that it was late autumn or winter, and about two years ago. these are the only channel island specimens of which i have been able to glean any intelligence. probably, however, it has occurred at other times and been overlooked. as it may have occasionally been mistaken for the more common common buzzard, i may say that it is always to be distinguished from that bird by the feathered tarsus. on the wing, perhaps, when flying overhead, the most readily observed distinction is the dark band on the lower part of the breast. i have, however, seen a very dark variety of the rough-legged buzzard, in which nearly the whole of the plumage was a uniform dark chocolate-brown, and consequently the dark band on the breast could not be seen even when one had the bird in one's hand, and had it not been for the feathered tarsus this bird might easily have been mistaken for a very dark variety of the common buzzard, and when on the wing it would have been impossible to identify it. indeed, though it was immediately distinguishable from the common buzzard by its feathered legs, there was some little difficulty about identifying it, even when handling it as a skin. professor ansted includes the rough-legged buzzard in his list, but only marks it as occurring in guernsey. there is no specimen at present in the museum. 12. marsh harrier. _circus oeruginosus_, linnaeus. french, "busard des marais."--this seems to be the least common of the harriers in the channel islands, though it does occur occasionally, and perhaps more frequently than is generally supposed. there are two specimens in the museum in guernsey both in immature plumage; in that state, in fact, in which this bird most commonly occurs, and in which it is the bald buzzard of bewick. miss c.b. carey records one in the november number of the 'zoologist' for 1874 in the following words:--"in the may of this year an adult male marsh harrier was found in herm. unfortunately it got into the hands of some person who, i believe, kept it too long before bringing it over to be preserved, so that all that remains of it is the head." i had no opportunity of examining this bird myself, not even the head, but i am disposed to doubt its being fully adult, as it seems to me much more probable that it was much in the same state as those in the museum, in which state it is much more common than in the fully adult plumage. miss carey seems only to have seen the head herself, so there may easily have been a mistake on this point. mr. macculloch writes me word that a marsh harrier was killed in herm in may, 1875. it may be just possible, however, that this is the same bird recorded by miss c.b. carey, and that mr. macculloch only heard of it in the may of the following year, and noted it accordingly. this, however, is mere supposition on my part, for which i have no reason except that both birds were said to have been killed in herm, and both in may. professor ansted mentions the marsh harrier in his list, but marks it as only found in guernsey. 12. hen harrier. _circus cyaneus_, linnaeus. french, "busard st. martin."[6]--the hen harrier, perhaps, occurs rather more frequently than the marsh harrier, but it can only be considered a rare occasional visitant. in june, 1876, i saw one young hen harrier, which had been shot in herm in the april of that year, about the same time as the iceland falcon, and by the same keeper, who had brought it to mr. couch to stuff. another was shot in herm on the 19th of june, 1877. this bird is now in mr. maxwell's collection, where i saw it on the 27th of june. it was first reported to me by mr. jago, the bird-stuffer in guernsey. these are the only two channel island specimens of the hen harrier which i have been able to find. i have never shot it myself or seen it alive. it is, however, included in professor ansted's list, but marked as occurring in guernsey only. [13. omitted.] 14. montagu's harrier. _circus cineraceus_, montagu. french, "busard montagu," "busard cendré."--montagu's harrier is certainly a more frequent visitant to the islands than either the hen harrier or the marsh harrier. miss c.b. carey records one in the 'zoologist' for 1873 as having been shot in alderney in july of that year. she adds that it was an adult male in full plumage, and that she saw it herself at mr. couch's shop. in the 'zoologist' for 1874 she records another montagu's harrier--a young one--shot in herm in july of that year. she adds that--"it was brought to mr. couch to skin. he found a whole lark's egg, and also the shell of another, in its throat. he showed me how the whole egg was sticking in the empty shell of the broken one." all the harriers seem to have a special liking for eggs. in his notice of the marsh harrier professor newton says, in his edition of yarrell,' that birds' eggs are an irresistible delicacy; and, in speaking of the food of the present species, he says it consists chiefly of grasshoppers, reptiles, small mammals, birds and their eggs; these last, if their size permit, being often swallowed whole, as was the case in the instance mentioned by miss carey. mr. howard saunders also says he can bear witness to the egg-eating propensities of the harriers. besides the two recorded by miss c.b. carey, i saw one--a young bird--in mr. maxwell's collection, which had been killed at herm, and another--a young male--at mr. jago's, the bird-stuffer, which had also been killed at herm. there were also two young birds in the bird-stuffer and carpenter's shop at alderney, both of which had been killed in that island shortly before my last visit, june, 1878. as mistakes may occasionally arise in identifying specimens, especially in immature plumage, it may be as well to notice a distinction between the hen harrier and montagu's harrier, which has been pointed out by mr. howard saunders, and which holds good in all ages and in both sexes. this distinction is, that in the hen harrier the outer web of the fifth primary is notched, whereas in montagu's harrier it is plain, or, in other words, the hen harrier has the exterior web of the primaries, up to and including the fifth, notched, and in montagu's harrier this is only the case as far as the fourth.[7] this distinction is very useful in identifying young birds and females, which are sometimes very much alike. in fully adult males the orange markings on the flanks and thighs, and the greyish upper tail-coverts of montagu's harrier, distinguish it immediately at a glance from the hen harrier, in which those parts are white. montagu's harrier is not included by professor ansted in his list, nor is there a specimen in the museum. 15. longeared owl. _asiootus_, linnaeus. french, "hibou vulgaire," "hibou moyen due."--the long-eared owl seems only a very rare and accidental visitant to the channel islands. i have never met with it myself, but mr. couch records the occurrence of one in the 'zoologist' for 1875, p. 4296:--"i have a long-eared owl, shot at st. martin's on the 9th of november in that year." this is the only occurrence i can be sure of, except that mr. couch, about two years afterwards, sent me a skin of a guernsey-killed long-eared owl; but this may have been the bird mentioned above, as he sent me no date with it. as it is partially migratory, and its numbers in the british islands, especially in the eastern counties, are increased during the autumn by migratory arrivals, a few may wander, especially in the autumn, to the channel islands, but it can only be rarely. professor ansted includes it in his list, and marks it as having been found both in guernsey and sark. there is no specimen of the long-eared owl at present in the museum. if there has been one it must have got moth-eaten, like many of the other birds there, and been destroyed. 16. shorteared owl. _asio accipitrinus_, pallas. french, "hibou brachyôte."--unlike the long-eared owl, the short-eared owl is a regular autumnal visitant to the channel islands, arriving about october in considerable numbers, but remaining only for a short time, as i do not know of any making their appearance after the end of november, and the majority of those that have arrived seem to pass on about that time, not remaining throughout the winter, and i hear of no instances of their occurring on the spring migration, so the majority must pass north by a different line from that pursued by them on the southern migration. there is only one specimen at present in the museum. professor ansted mentions it in his list, but only as found in guernsey and sark; but it is quite as common in alderney, from which island i have seen specimens, and i think also from herm, but i cannot be quite sure about this, though of course there can be no reason why it should not be found there, as herm is only three miles as the crow flies from guernsey. 17. barn owl. _aluco flammeus_, linnaeus. french, "chouette effraie."--i have never seen the barn or yellow owl alive in the channel islands myself, but mr. macculloch does not consider it at all rare in guernsey, and mr. jago informs me the barn owls have taken possession of a pigeon-hole in a house in the brock road opposite his, and that he sees and hears them every night. some years ago he told me he shot one near the queen's tower. he was not scared like the man who shot one in the churchyard, and thought he had shot a cherubim, but he had to give up shooting owls, as the owner of the pigeon-hole where the owls have taken up their abode remonstrated with him, and he has since refrained, though he has had several chances. the vacancy caused by the one being shot was soon filled up. the barn owl is mentioned in professor ansted's list, and restricted to guernsey and sark. there are two specimens in the museum, both of which are said to have been killed in guernsey. 18. redbacked shrike. _lanius collurio_, linnaeus. french, "pie-grieche écorcheur."--the red-backed shrike may be considered a tolerably regular, but not very common, summer visitant to the channel islands. in june, 1876, i several times saw a male bird about the vallon, in guernsey. the female no doubt had a nest at the time in the vallon grounds, but i could not then get in there to search for it. as the red-backed shrike frequently returns to the same place every year, i expected again to find this bird, and perhaps the female and the nest this year, 1878, about the vallon, but i could see nothing of either birds or nest, though i searched both inside and outside the vallon grounds. young mr. le cheminant, who lives at le ree and has a small collection of guernsey eggs mostly collected by himself in the island, had one red-backed shrike's egg of the variety which has the reddish, or rather perhaps pink, tinge. there were also some eggs in a guernsey collection in the museum. these were all of the more ordinary variety. there were also two skins--a male and female--in the museum. the bird seems rather local in its distribution about the island, as i never saw one about the vale in any of my visits, not even this year, 1878, when i was there for two months, and had ample opportunity of observing it had it been there. there are, however, plenty of places nearly as well suited to it in the vale as about the vallon or le ree. i have never seen it in either of the other islands, though no doubt it occasionally occurs both in sark and herm, if not in alderney. professor ansted includes the red-backed shrike in his list, and marks it only as occurring in guernsey. i have no evidence of any other shrike occurring in the islands, though i should think the great grey shrike, _lanius excubitor_, might be an occasional autumn or winter visitant to the islands; but i have never seen a specimen myself or been able to glean any satisfactory information as to the occurrence of one, either from the local bird-stuffers or from mr. macculloch, or any of my friends who have so kindly supplied me with notes; neither does professor ansted mention it in his list. 19. spotted flycatcher. _muscicapa grisola_, linnaeus. french, "gobe-mouche gris."--the spotted flycatcher is a regular and numerous summer visitant, generally quite as numerous in certain localities as in england, its arrival and departure being about the same time. it occurs also in sark and herm, and probably in alderney, but i do not remember having seen one there. in guernsey it is perhaps a little local in its distribution, avoiding to a great extent such places as the vale and the open ground on the cliffs, but in all the gardens and orchards it is very common. spotted flycatchers appear, however, to vary in numbers to a certain extent in different years. this year, 1878, they came out in great force, especially on the lawn at candie where they availed themselves to a large extent of the croquet-hoops, from which they kept a good look-out either for insects on the wing or on the ground, and they might be as frequently seen dropping to the ground for some unfortunate creeping thing that attracted their attention as rising in the air to give chase to something on the wing. certainly, when i was in guernsey about the same time in 1866, spotted flycatchers did not appear to be quite so numerous as in 1878. this was probably only owing to one of those accidents of wind and weather which render migratory birds generally, less numerous in some years than they are in others, however much they may wish and endeavour, which seems to be their usual rule, to return to their former breeding stations. professor ansted mentions the spotted flycatcher in his list, but does not add, as he usually does, any letter showing its distribution through the islands. this probably is because it is generally distributed through them all. there is no specimen in the museum. 20. golden oriole. _oriolus galbula_, linnaeus. french, "le loriot."--i have never seen the bird alive or found any record of the occurrence of the golden oriole in guernsey or the neighbouring islands, and beyond the fact that there was one example--a female--in the museum (which may have been from jersey) i had been able to gain no information on the subject except of a negative sort. no specimen had passed through the hands of the local bird-stuffers certainly for a good many years, for mr. jago's mother who about twenty or thirty years ago, when she was miss cumber, had been for some considerable time the only bird-stuffer in the island, told me she did not know the bird, and had never had one through her hands. it seemed to me rather odd that a bird which occurs almost every year in the british islands, occasionally even as far west as ireland, as a straggler, and which is generally distributed over the continent of europe in the summer, should be totally unknown in the channel islands. consequently writing to the 'star' about another guernsey bird--a hoopoe--which had been recorded in that paper, i asked for information as to the occurrence of the golden oriole in the islands, and shortly after the following letter signed "tereus"[8] appeared in the 'star':--"concerning the occurrence of the golden oriole i cannot speak from my own personal knowledge, but i believe there can be no doubt that the bird has been occasionally seen here. its presence, however, must be much more rare than that of the hoopoe, for a bird of such plumage as the oriole would be more likely to attract even more attention than the comparatively sober-coloured hoopoe, and if half so common as the latter would be sure to fall before the gun of the fowler. there was a specimen of the female bird in the museum of the mechanics' institution, but i am not sure about its history, and i have some reason to suppose it was shot in jersey. our venerable national poet, mr. george métivier, has many allusions to the oriole in his early effusions, whether written in english, french, or our vernacular dialect. it seems to have been an occasional visitor at st. george's; but in mr. métivier's early days the island was far more wooded than it is at present, and it is possible that the wholesale destruction of hedgerow elms and the grubbing-up of so many orchards in order to employ the ground more profitably in the culture of early potatoes and brocoli, by which the island has lost much of its picturesque beauty, may have had the effect of deterring some of the occasional visitors from alighting here in their periodical migrations." signed "tereus." a short time after the appearance of this letter in the 'star' on the 16th of may, 1878, mr. macculloch himself wrote to me on the subject and said:--"i had yesterday a very satisfactory interview with mr. george métivier. he is now in his 88th or 89th year. he told me he was about thirteen when he went to reside with his relations, the guilles, at st. george. there was then a great deal of old timber about the place and a long avenue of oaks, besides three large cherry orchards. one day he was startled by the sight of a male oriole. he had never seen the bird before. whether it was that one that was killed or another in a subsequent year i don't know, but he declares that for several years afterwards they were seen in the oak trees and among the cherries, and that he has not the least doubt but that they bred there. one day an old french gentleman of the name of de l'huiller from the south of france, an emigrant, noticed the birds and made the remark--'ah! vous avez des loriots ici; nous en avons beaucoup chez nous, ils sont grands gobeurs de cerises.' it would appear from this that cherries are a favourite food with this bird, and the presence of cherry orchards would account for their settling down at st. george. i believe they are said to be very shy, and the absence of wood would account for their not being seen in the present day." i have no doubt that mr. macculloch is right that the cherry orchards, to say nothing of other fruit trees, tempted the golden orioles to remain to breed in the island, for they are "grand gobeurs" not only of "cerises," but of many other sorts of fruit, particularly of grapes and figs--in grape countries, indeed, doing a deal of damage amongst the vineyards. this damage to grapes would not, however, be much felt in guernsey, as all the grapes are protected by orchard-houses. but though the grapes are protected, and most, if not all, the cherry orchards cut down, still there is plenty of unprotected fruit in guernsey to tempt the golden oriole to remain in the islands, and to bring the wrath and the gun of the gardener both to bear upon him when he is there. this, however, only shows that from the time spoken of by mr. métivier down to the present time very few golden orioles could have visited guernsey, and still fewer remained to breed; for what with their fruit-eating propensities and their bright plumage, hardly a bird could have escaped being shot and subsequently making its appearance in the bird-stuffers' windows, and affording a subject for a notice in the 'star,' or some other paper. i think therefore, on the whole, that though guernsey still affords many temptations to the golden oriole, and is sufficiently well-wooded to afford shelter to suit its shy and suspicious habits, yet for some reason or other the bird has not visited the island of late years even as an accidental visitant, or, if so, very rarely. the golden oriole is mentioned in professor ansted's list, and marked as having occurred in guernsey and sark, but nothing more is said about the bird. probably guernsey was mentioned as a locality on account of the female specimen in the museum, but with this exception i have never heard of its making its appearance in sark even as a straggler. 21. dipper. _cinclus aquaticus_, bechstein. french, "aquassière," "cincle plongeur."--the dipper or water ouzel, though not very common, less so, indeed, than the kingfisher, is nevertheless a resident species, finding food all through the year in the clear pools left by the tide, and also frequenting the few inland ponds, especially the rather large ones, belonging to mr. de putron in the vale, where there is always a dipper or a kingfisher to be seen, though i do not think the dipper ever breeds about those ponds--in fact there is no place there which would suit it; but though i have never found the nest myself in guernsey, i have been informed, especially by mr. gallienne, that the dipper makes use of some of the rocky bays, forming his nest amongst the rocks as it would on the streams of dartmoor and exmoor. captain hubboch, however, writes me word he saw one in alderney in the winter of 1861-62, and there seems no reason why a few should not remain there throughout the year as in guernsey. all the guernsey dippers i have seen, including the two in the museum, which are probably guernsey-killed, have been the common form, _cinclus_ _aquations_. the dark-breasted form, _cinclus melanogaster_, may occur as an occasional wanderer, though the channel islands are somewhat out of its usual range. there being no trout or salmon to be protected in guernsey, the dipper has not to dread the persecution of wretched keepers who falsely imagine that it must live entirely by the destruction of salmon and trout ova, though the contrary has been proved over and over again. professor ansted includes the dipper in his list, but only marks it as occurring in guernsey. 22. mistletoe thrush. _turdus viscivorus_, linnaeus. french, "merle draine," "grive draine."--i quite agree with the remarks made by professor newton, in his edition of 'yarrell,' as to the proper english name of the present species, and that it ought to be called the mistletoe thrush. i am afraid, however, that the shorter appellation of missel thrush will stick to this bird in spite of all attempts to the contrary. in guernsey the local name of the mistletoe thrush is "geai," by which name mr. métivier mentions it in his 'dictionary of guernsey and norman french.' he also adds that the jay does not exist in this island. this is to a certain extent confirmed by mr. macculloch, who says he is very doubtful as to the occurrence of the jay in the island, and adds that the local name for the mistletoe thrush is "geai." mr. gallienne, in a note to professor ansted's list, confirms the scarcity of the jay, as he says the rook and the jay are rarely seen here, although they are indigenous to jersey. the local name "geai" may perhaps have misled him as to the occasional appearance of the jay. i have never seen a real jay in guernsey myself. as far as i am able to judge from occasional visits to the island for the last thirty years the mistletoe thrush has greatly increased in numbers in guernsey, especially within the last few years, and mr. macculloch and others who are resident in the island quite agree with me in this. i do not think its numbers are much increased at any time of year by migrants, though a few foreigners may arrive in the autumn, at which time of year considerable numbers of mistletoe thrushes are brought into the guernsey market, where they may be seen hanging in bunches with common thrushes, redwings, blackbirds, fieldfares, starlings, and an occasional ring ouzel. fieldfares and mistletoe thrushes usually sell at fourpence each, the rest at fourpence a couple. professor ansted mentions it in his list, but confines it to guernsey and sark. this is certainly not now the case, as i have seen it nearly as numerous in alderney and herm as any of the other islands. there is a specimen in the museum. 23. song thrush. _turdus musicus_, linnaeus. french, "grive," "merle grive."--very common and resident in all the islands, and great is the destruction of snails by thrushes and blackbirds--in fact, nowhere have i seen such destruction as in the channel islands, especially in guernsey and herm, where every available stone seems made use of, and to considerable purpose, to judge from the number of snail-shells to be found about; and yet the gardeners complain quite as much of damage to their gardens, especially in the fruit season, by blackbirds and thrushes, as the english gardeners and seem equally unready to give these birds any credit for the immense destruction of snails, which, if left alone, would scarcely have left a green thing in the garden. the local name of the thrush is "mauvis." it is, of course, included in professor ansted's list, but with the fieldfare, redwing, and blackbird, marked as only occurring in guernsey and sark. all these birds, however, are equally common in alderney, herm, and jethou. there is also a specimen of each in the museum. 24. redwing. _turdus iliacus_, linnaeus. french, "grive mauvis," "merle mauvis."--a regular and numerous winter visitant to all the islands, arriving about the end of october, and those that are not shot and brought into the market departing again in march and april. 25. fieldfare. _turdus pilaris_, linnaeus. french, "grive litorne," "merle litorne."--like the redwing, the fieldfare is a regular and numerous winter visitant, and arrives and departs about the same time. when in guernsey in november, 1871, i did not see either redwings or fieldfares till a few days after my arrival on the 1st; after that both species were numerous, and a few days later plenty of them might be seen hanging up in the market with the thrushes and blackbirds, but for the first few days there were none to be seen there. probably this was rather a late year, as neither bird could have arrived in any numbers till the first week in november, and in all probability not till towards the end of the week. 26. blackbird. _turdus merula_, linnaeus. french, "merle noir."--the blackbird is a common and numerous resident in all the islands in the bailiwick of guernsey. the guernsey gardeners, like their brethren in england, make a great fuss about the mischief done by blackbirds in the gardens, and no doubt blackbirds, like the golden orioles, are "grand gobeurs" of many kinds of fruit; but the gardeners should remember that they are equally "grand gobeurs" of many kinds of insects as well, many of the most mischievous insects to the garden, including wasps (i have myself several times found wasps in the stomach of the blackbird) forming a considerable portion of their food, the young also being almost entirely fed upon worms, caterpillars, and grubs; and when we remember that it is only for a short time of the year that the blackbird can feed on fruit, which in most cases can be protected by a little care, and that during the whole of the other portion of the year it feeds on insects which would do more damage in the garden than itself, it will be apparent that the gardener has really no substantial ground of complaint. as in england, variations in the plumage of the blackbird are not uncommon. i have one guernsey specimen of a uniform fawn colour, and another rather curiously marked with grey, the tail-feathers being striped across grey and black. this is a young bird recently out of the nest, and i have no doubt would, after a moult or two, have come to its proper plumage, probably after the first moult, as seems to me frequently the case with varieties of this sort, though i have known a blackbird show a good deal af white year after year in the winter, resuming its proper plumage in the summer; and mr. jago mentions a case of a blackbird which passed through his hands which was much marked with grey. this bird was found dead, and the owner of the estate on which it was found informed mr. jago that it had frequented his place for four years, and that he had seen it with its mate during the summer; so in this case the variation certainly seems to have been permanent. 27. ring ouzel. _turdus torquatus_, linnaeus. french, "merle à plastron."--i do not think the ring ouzel is ever as common in the channel islands as it is on migration in south devon. a few, however, make their appearance in each of the islands every autumn, but they are never very numerous, and do not remain very long, arriving generally about the end of september and remaining till the end of november or beginning of december, during which time a few may always be seen hung up in the market. many of the autumnal arrivals are young birds of the year, with the white crescent on the breast nearly wanting or only very faintly marked. mr. gallienne, in his remarks appended to professor ansted's list, says the ring ouzel stays with us throughout the year, but is more plentiful in winter than in summer. but i have never myself seen one either dead or alive in the spring or summer. it may, however, occasionally visit the island in the spring migration, but i know of no authentic instance of its remaining to breed, nor have i seen the eggs in any guernsey collection. i have seen specimens of the ring ouzel from alderney, and it appears to me about equally common at the same time of year in all the islands. mr. macculloch, however, writes to me:--"from what i have heard the ring ouzel is more common in alderney than guernsey, where it is seen mostly on the southern cliffs." the south end of the island is no doubt its favourite resort in guernsey. as far as alderney is concerned captain hubback, r.a., who has been quartered there at different times, says he has never seen one there; but i do not think he has been much there in the early autumn. professor ansted includes it in his list, and marks it as occurring in guernsey and sark. there are several, both male and female and young, in the guernsey museum. 28. hbdgesparrow. _accentor modularis_, linnaeus. french, "mouchet," "traîne buisson," "accenteur mouchet."--the hedgesparrow is, i think, quite as common as in england, and resident throughout the year in all the islands. according to mr. métivier's 'dictionary' its local name is "verdeleu," and he describes it as "oiseau qui couvre les oeufs de coucou." in guernsey, however, cuckoos are much too numerous for the hedgesparrow to afford accommodation for them all. professor ansted mentions the hedgesparrow in his list, but restricts it to guernsey and sark. i have, however, frequently seen it in alderney and herm, and the little island of jethou. 29. robin. _ericathus rubecula_, linnaeus. french. "bec-fin rouge-gorge," "rouge gorge." the robin, like the hedgesparrow, is a common resident in all the islands, and i cannot find that its numbers are increased at any time of year by migration. but on the other hand i should think a good many of the young must be driven off to seek quarters elsewhere by their most pugnacious parents, for of all birds the robin is by far the most pugnacious with which i am acquainted, and deserves the name of "pugnax" much more than the ruff, and in a limited space like jethou and herm battles between the old and the young would be constant unless some of the young departed altogether from the island. professor ansted includes the robin in his list, but, as with the hedgesparrow, only mentions it as occurring in guernsey and sark. it is, however, equally common in alderney, jethou, and herm. 30. redstart. _ruticilla phoenicurus_, linnaeus. french, "rouge-queue," "bec-fin des murailles."--i should not have included the redstart in this list, as i have never seen it in the islands myself, but on sending a list of the birds i intended to include to mr. macculloch, he wrote to say--"you mention tithy's redstart; the common one is also seen here." in consequence of this information i looked very sharply out for the birds during the two months (june and july) which i was in guernsey this year (1878), but i never once saw the bird in any of the islands, nor could i find any one who had; and such a conspicuous and generally well known bird could hardly have escaped observation had it been in the island in any numbers. i may add that i have had the same bad luck in all my former visits to the islands, and never seen a redstart. i suppose, however, from mr. macculloch's note that it occasionally visits the islands for a short time on migration, very few, if any, remaining to breed. it is included in professor ansted's list, but only marked as occurring in guernsey. there is, however, no specimen at present in the museum. 31. black redstart. _ruticilla titys_, scopoli. french, "rouge queue tithys."--the black, or tithys redstart, as it is sometimes called, is a regular and by no means uncommon autumnal visitant to guernsey. it seems very much to take the place of the wheatear, arriving about the time the wheatear departs, and mostly frequenting the same places. in guernsey it is most common near the sea about the low part of the island, from l'ancresse common to perrelle bay. in habits it puts one very much in mind of the wheatear, being very fond, like that bird, of selecting some big stone or some other conspicuous place to perch on and keep a look-out either for intruders or for some passing insect, either flying or creeping, for it is an entirely insect-feeding bird. i have never seen the black redstart about the high part of the island amongst the rocks, which i am rather surprised at, as in the south coast of devon it seems particularly partial to high cliffs and rocks, such as the parson and clerk rock near teignmouth; but in guernsey the wild grassy commons, with scattered rocks and large boulders, and occasionally a rough pebbly beach, especially the upper part of it where the pebbles join the grass, seem more the favourite resort of this bird than the high rocks, such places probably being more productive of food. it is of course quite useless to look for this bird in the interior of the island in gardens and orchards, and such places as one would naturally look for the common redstart. the male black redstart may be immediately distinguished from the common redstart by the black breast and belly, and by the absence of the white mark on the forehead. the male black redstart has also a white patch on the wing caused by the pale, nearly white, margins of the feathers. the females are more alike, but still may easily be distinguished, the general colour of the female black redstart being much duller--a dull smoke-brown instead of the reddish brown of the common redstart. some slight variations of plumage take place in the black redstart at different ages and seasons, which have led to some little difficulties, and to another supposed species, _ruticilla cairii_ of gerbe being suggested, but apparently quite without reason. i have never seen the black redstart in the islands at any time of year except the autumn, and do not know of its occurrence at any other time. professor ansted includes it in his list, but gives no locality; and there is no specimen in the museum. 32. stonechat. _pratincola rubicola_, linnaeus. french, "tarier rubicole," "traquet pâtre," "traquet rubicole."--the stonechat is a numerous and regular summer visitant, breeding in all the islands, but i do not think any remain throughout the winter; of course a few scattered birds may occasionally do so in some sheltered locality, but i have never seen one in the islands as late as november. both in the vale and on the cliffs in the higher part of the island the stonechat is very common, and the gay little bird, with its bright plumage and sprightly manner, may be seen on the top of every furze bush, or on a conspicuous twig in a hedge in the wilder parts of the island, but is not so common in the inland and more cultivated parts, being less frequently seen on the hedges by the roadside than it is here, somersetshire, or in many counties in england. in alderney it is quite as common as in guernsey, and i saw two nests this year (1878) amongst the long grass growing on the earthworks near the artillery barracks; it is equally common also both in jethou, sark, and herm. there were a great many stonechats in the vale when i was there this year (1878). generally they seemed earlier in their breeding proceedings than either wheatears, tree pipits, or sky larks, which were the three other most numerous birds about that part of the island, as there were several young ones about when we first went to live in the vale early in june; still occasionally nests with eggs more or less hard sat might be found, but the greater number were hatched when fresh eggs of tree pipits and sky larks were by no means uncommon. professor ansted includes the stonechat in his list, but marks it as confined to guernsey and sark. there is a specimen in the museum. 33. whinchat. _pratincola rubetra_, linnaeus. french, "tarier ordinaire," "traquet tarier."--the whinchat seems to me never so numerous as the stonechat, and more local in its distribution during the time it is in the islands. it is only a summer visitant, and i doubt if it always remains to breed, though it certainly does so occasionally, as i have seen it in guernsey through june and july mostly in the south part of the island, near pleimont. in my last visit to the islands, however, in june and july, 1878, i did not see the whinchat anywhere, neither did i see one when there in june, 1876. professor ansted includes the whinchat in his list, and marks it as occurring in guernsey and sark. there is no specimen in the museum. 34. wheatear. _saxicola oenanthe,_ linnaeus. french, "motteux cul blanc," "traquet moteux."--a very common summer visitant to all the islands, arriving in march and departing again in october, none remaining through the winter--at least, i have never seen a wheatear in the islands as late as november on any occasion. in the vale, where a great many breed, the young began to make their appearance out of the nest and flying about, but still fed by their parents, about the 16th of june. in guernsey it is rather locally distributed, being common all round the coast, both on the high and low part of the island, but only making its appearance in the cultivated part in the interior as an occasional straggler. it is quite as common in alderney and the other islands as it is in guernsey, in alderney there being few or no enclosures, and no hedgerow timber. it is more universally distributed over the whole island, in the cultivated as well as the wild parts. professor ansted includes it in his list, but marks it as only occurring in guernsey and sark. there are several specimens in the museum, but i did not see any eggs either there or in young le cheminant's collection. this is probably because in guernsey the wheatear has a great partiality for laying its eggs under large slabs and boulders of granite perfectly immovable; the stones forming one of the druids' altars in the vale, were made use of to cover a nest when i was there. 35. reed warbler. _acrocephalus streperus_, vieillot. french, "rousserolle effarvatte," "bec-fin des roseaux."--i did not find out the reed warbler as a guernsey bird till this year (1878), though it is a rather numerous but very local summer visitant. but mr. macculloch put me on the right track, as he wrote to me to say--"the reed warbler builds in the grand mare. i have seen several of their curious hanging nests brought from there." this put me on the right scent, and i went to the place as soon as i could, and found parts of it a regular paradise for reed warblers, and there were a considerable number there, who seemed to enjoy the place thoroughly, climbing to the tops of the long reeds and singing, then flying up after some passing insect, or dropping like a stone to the bottom of the reed-bed if disturbed or frightened. on my first visit to the grand mare i had not time to search the reed-beds for nests. but on going there a second time, on june 17, with colonel l'estrange, we had a good search for nests, and soon found one with four eggs in it which were quite fresh. this nest was about three feet from the ground, tied on to four reeds,[9] and, as usual, having no support at the bottom, was made entirely of long dry bents of rather coarse grass, and a little of the fluff of the cotton plant woven amongst the bents outside, but none inside. we did not find any other nests in the grand mare, though we saw a great many more birds; the reeds, however, were very thick and tall, high over our heads, so that when we were a few feet apart we could not see each other, and the place was full of pitfalls with deep water in them, which were very difficult to be seen and avoided. many of the nests, i suspect, were amongst the reeds which were growing out of the water. subsequently, on july the 12th, i found another reed warbler's nest amongst some reeds growing by mr. de putron's pond near the vale church; this nest, which was attached to reeds of the same kind as those at the grand mare, growing out of water about a foot deep: it was about the same height above the water that the other was from the ground; it had five eggs in it hard sat. there were one or two pairs more breeding amongst these reeds, though i could not very well get at the place without a boat, but the birds were very noisy and vociferous whenever i got near their nests, as were the pair whose nest i found. there were also a few pairs in some reed-beds of the same sort near l'eree. these are all the places in which i have been able to find the reed warbler in guernsey. i have not found it myself in alderney, but mr. gallienne, in his remarks published with professor ansted's list, says:--"i have put the reed wren as doubtful for guernsey, but i have seen the nest of this bird found at alderney." in the list itself it is marked as belonging to guernsey, alderney, and sark. the reed warbler, though entirely insectivorous, is a very tame and amusing cage-bird, and may easily be fed on raw meat chopped fine and a little hard-boiled egg; but its favourite food is flies, and of these it will eat any quantity, and woe even to the biggest bluebottle that may buzz through its cage, for the active little bird will have it in a moment, and after a few sharp snaps of the beak there is quite an end of the bluebottle. daddy long-legs, too, are favourite morsels, and after a little beating about disappear down the bird's throat--legs, wings, and all, without any difficulty. the indigestible parts are afterwards cast up in pellets in the same manner as with hawks. i have never seen the nearly-allied and very similar marsh warbler, _acrocephalus palustris_, in guernsey, but, as it may occasionally occur, it may be as well perhaps to point out what little distinction there is between the species. this seems to me to consist chiefly in the difference of colour, the reed warbler, _acrocephalus streperus_, at all ages and in all states of plumage, being a warmer, redder brown than _acrocephalus palustris_, which is always more or less tinged with green. the legs in _a. streperus_ are always darker than in _a. palustris_; the beak also in _a. palustris_ seems rather broader at the base and thicker. this bird also has a whitish streak over the eye, which seems wanting in _a. streperus._ these distinctions seem to me always to hold, good even in specimens which have been kept some time and have faded to what has now generally got the name of "museum colour." mr. dresser, in his 'birds of europe,' points out another distinction which no doubt is a good one in adult birds with their quills fully grown, but fails in young birds and in adults soon after the moult, before the quills are fully grown, and also before the moult if any quills have been shed and not replaced. this distinction is that in _a. streperus_ the second (that is the first long quill, for the first in both species is merely rudimentary) is shorter than the fourth, and in _a. palustris_ it is longer. though i think it not at all improbable that the marsh warbler, _acrocephalus palustris_, may occur in guernsey, i should not expect to find it so much in the wet reed-beds in the grand mare and at the vale pond as amongst the lilac bushes and ornamental shrubs in the gardens, or in thick bramble bushes in hedgerows and places of that sort. 36. sedge warbler. _acrocephalus schoenobaenus_, linnaeus. french, "bee-fin phragmite."--the sedge warbler is by no means so common as the reed warbler, though, like it, it is a summer visitant, and is quite as local. i did not see any amongst the reeds which the reed warbler delighted in, but i saw a few amongst some thick willow hedges with thick grass and rushes growing by the side of the bank, and a small running stream in each ditch. though perfectly certain the birds were breeding near, we could not find the nests. so well were they hidden amongst the thick grass and herbage by the side of the stream that colonel l'estrange and myself were quite beaten in our search for the nest, though we saw the birds several times quite near enough to be certain of their identity. i did not shoot one for the purpose of identification, as perhaps i ought to have done, but i thought if i shot one it would be extremely doubtful whether i should ever find it amongst the thick tangle--certainly unless quite dead there would not have been a chance. i felt quite certain, however, that all i saw were sedge warblers; had i felt any doubt as to the possibility of one of them turning out to be the aquatic warbler, _acrocephalus aquaticus_, i should certainly have tried the effect of a shot. as it is quite possible, however, that the aquatic warbler may occasionally, or perhaps regularly, in small numbers, visit the channel islands, as they are quite within its geographical range, i may point out, for the benefit of any one into whose hands it may fall, that it may easily be distinguished from the sedge warbler by the pale streak passing through the centre of the dark crown of the head. the sedge warbler is not mentioned by professor ansted in his list, and there is no specimen of either this or the reed warbler in the museum. 37. dartford warbler. _melizophilus undatus,_ boddaert. french, "pitchou provencal," "bee-fin pittechou."--the dartford warbler is by no means common in the channel islands--indeed i have never seen one there myself, but miss c.b. carey records one in the 'zoologist' for 1874 as having been knocked down with a stone in the april of that year and brought into couch's shop, where she saw it. i have no doubt of the correctness of this identification, as miss carey knew the bird well. i see no reason why it should not be more common in guernsey than is usually supposed, as there are many places well suited to it, but its rather dull plumage, and its habit of hiding itself in thick furze-bushes, and creeping from one to another as soon as disturbed, contribute to keep it much out of sight, unless one knows and can imitate its call-note, in which case the male bird will soon answer and flutter up to the topmost twig of the furze-bush in which it may have previously been concealed, fluttering its wings, and repeating the call until again disturbed. this is the only occurrence of which i am aware in any of the islands, included in the limits i have prescribed for myself; but mr. harvie brown has recorded two seen by him near grève de lecq, in jersey, in january. see 'zoologist' for 1869, p. 1561. it is not included in professor ansted's list, and there is no specimen in the museum. 38. whitethroat. _sylvia rufa_, boddaert. french, "fauvette grise," "bec-fin grisette."--the whitethroat has hitherto perhaps been better known by the name used in the former edition of 'yarrell' and by messrs. degland and gerbe, _curruca cinerea_, but in consequence of the inexorable rule of the british association the name "_rufa_," given by boddaert in 1783, has now been accepted for this bird. i have not generally thought it necessary to point out these changes, but in this instance it seemed necessary to do so, as in the former edition of 'yarrell' the chiffchaff was called by the name _sylvia rufa_, and this might possibly have caused some confusion unless the change had been pointed out. the whitethroat is by no means so common in the channel islands as it is in england, and though a regular summer visitant it only makes its appearance in small numbers. a few, however, may be seen about the fields and hedgerows in the more cultivated parts of the country. it certainly has not got the reputation for mischief in the garden it has in england, as none of the gardeners i asked about it, and who were complaining grievously of the mischief done by birds, ever mentioned the whitethroat, or knew the bird when asked about it. professor ansted includes the bird in his list, and restricts it to guernsey, but i see no reason why it should not occur equally in sark and herm. there is no specimen at present in the museum. 39. lesser whitethroat. _sylvia curruca_, linnaeus. french, "bee-fin babillard."--like the whitethroat, the lesser whitethroat is a regular, but by no means a numerous summer visitant to guernsey. i saw a few in the willow-hedges about the grand mare, and in one or two other places near there, and young le cheminant had one or two eggs in his collection, probably taken about l'eree. the lesser whitethroat is included in professor ansted's list, and only marked as occurring in guernsey. there is at present no specimen in the museum. 40. blackcap. _sylvia atricapilla_, linnaeus. french, "fauvette à tête noire," "bec-fin à tête noire."--though generally known as the guernsey nightingale, the blackcap, though a regular, is by no means a numerous summer visitant. i have, however, always seen a few about every time i have been in the island in the summer. there are a few eggs in the museum, and in le cheminant's collection. the blackcap is mentioned by professor ansted in his list, and restricted to guernsey. there is only one specimen--a female--at present in the museum. 41. willow wren. _phylloscopus trochilus_, linnaeus. french, "bee-fin pouillat."--the willow wren is a tolerably numerous summer visitant, i believe, to all the islands, though i have only seen it myself in guernsey and sark. in guernsey i have seen it about the grand mare, and in some trees near the road about st. george, and about the vallon on the other side of the island. it remains all the summer and breeds. professor ansted has not included it in his list, although it seems tolerably well known, and has a local name "d'mouâiselle," which mr. métivier, in his 'dictionary,' applies to the willow wren of the english. this name, however, is probably equally applicable to the chiffchaff. 42. chiffchaff. _phylloscopus collybita_, vieillot. french, "bee-fin veloce."--the chiffchaff is certainly more common in guernsey than the willow wren. in guernsey i have seen it in several places; about candie, where a pair had a nest this summer in the mowing-grass before the house; near the vallon; and about st. george. i have also seen it in sark, but not in either of the other islands, though no doubt it occurs in herm, if not in alderney. it is mentioned by professor ansted as occurring in guernsey and sark. i have never seen the wood wren in guernsey, and, judging from its favourite habitations here in somerset, i should not think it at all likely to remain in the channel islands through the summer, though an occasional straggler may touch the islands on migration. there is no specimen of either the chiffchaff or willow wren in the museum. 43. golden-crested wren. _regulus cristatus_, koch. french, "roitelet ordinaire."--the golden-crest is resident in the islands, but not very numerous, and i doubt if its numbers are regularly increased in the autumn by migrants, as is the case in the eastern counties of england. migratory flocks, however, sometimes make their appearance; and mr. macculloch writes to me--"the golden-crest occasionally comes over in large flocks, apparently from normandy, flying before bad weather. this, however, cannot be said to have been the cause of the large flight that appeared here so recently as the last days in april," 1878. this flock was mentioned in the 'star' of april the 27th as follows:--"a countryman informs us that a few days since, whilst he was at l'ancresse common, he saw several flocks of these smallest of british birds, numbering many hundreds in each, settle in different parts of the common before dispersing over the island. in verification of his words he showed us two or three of these tiny songsters which he had succeeded in knocking down with a stick." this large migratory flock had entirely disappeared from l'ancresse common when we went to live there for two months in may of the same year; there was not then a golden crest to be seen about the common. the whole flock had probably resumed their journey together, none of them having "dispersed over" or remained in the island, and certainly, as far as i could judge, the numbers in other parts of the island had not increased beyond what was usual and one might ordinarily expect. i have not been able to learn that the migratory flock above spoken of extended to any of the other islands. the golden-crested wren is mentioned by professor ansted, and marked as occurring in guernsey and sark. there are two--a male and female--in the museum. 44. fire-crested wren. _regulus ignicapillus_, c.l. brehm. french, "roitelet a triple bandeau."--i have a pair of these killed in guernsey about 1872, but i have not the exact date; and mr. couch, who knew the fire-crested wren well, writing to me on the 23rd of march, 1877, says:--"i had the head and part of a fire-crest female brought me by a young lady. she told me her brother knocked down two, and the other had a beautiful red and gold crest; so it must have been the male." as mr. couch knew both the goldcrest and fire-crest well, and the distinction between them, i have no doubt he rightly identified the bird which was brought to him. these and the pair in my collection are the only guernsey specimens i can be certain of. the 'star' newspaper, however, in the note above quoted as to the migratory flock of golden-crests, says:--"it may be a fact hitherto unknown to many of our readers that the fire-crested wren, very similar in appearance to the golden-crested wren, is not very uncommon in our island. the fire-crested wren so closely resembles its _confrère_, the golden-crested wren, that only a practised eye can distinguish the difference between them." i do not quite agree with the 'star' as to the fire-crest not being "very uncommon," though it occasionally occurs. i do not think it can be considered as anything but a rare occasional straggler. and this from its geographical distribution, which is rather limited, is what one would expect; it is not very common on the nearest coast of france or england, though it occasionally occurs about torbay, which is not very far distant. the name fire-crest has probably led to many mistakes between this bird and the golden-crest, as a brightly-coloured male gold-crest has the golden part of the crest quite as bright and as deeply coloured as the fire-crest; and the female fire-crest has a crest not a bit more deeply coloured than the female gold-crest. in point of fact the colour of the crest is of no value whatever in distinguishing between the birds, and the "practised eye" would find itself puzzled if it only relied upon that. the french name for the fire-crest, however, "roitelet à triple bandeau," is much more descriptive, as under the golden part of the crest there is a streak of black, and under that again a streak of white over the eye, and a streak of black through the eye; there is also a streak, or rather perhaps a spot of white, under the eye. the gold-crest has only the streak of black immediately under the gold crest; below that the whole of the side of the face and the space immediately surrounding the eye is a uniform dull olive-green. if this distinction is once known and attended to the difference between the two birds may be immediately detected by even the unpractised eye. a very interesting account of the nesting of this bird is given by mr. dresser, in his 'birds of europe,' he having made a journey to altenkirchen, where the fire-crest is numerous, on purpose to watch it in the breeding-season. the nest he describes as very like that of the golden-crest; the eggs also are much like those of that bird, though a little redder in colour. the fire-crest is not mentioned in professor ansted's list, and there is no specimen at present in the museum. 45. wren. _troglodytes parvulus_, k.l. koch. french, "roitelet," "troglodyte mignon," "troglodyte ordinaire."--the wren is common and resident in all the islands, and very generally distributed, being almost as common amongst the wild rocks on the coast as in the inland parts. on the 7th of july, 1878, i found a wren's nest amongst some of the wildest rocks in the island; the hinder part of the nest was wedged into a small crevice in the rock very firmly, the nest projecting and apparently only just stuck against the face of the rock. a great deal of material had been used, and the nest, projecting from the face of the rock as it did, looked large, and when i first caught sight of it i thought i might have hit upon an old water ouzel's nest. on getting close, however, i found it was only a wren's, with young birds in it. i visited this nest several times, and saw the old bird feeding her young. i could not, however, quite make out what she fed them with, but i think with insects caught amongst the seaweed and tangle amongst the rocks. after the young were flown i took this nest, and was astonished to find, when it was taken out of the crevice, how much material had been used in wedging it in, and how firmly it was attached to the rock. this was certainly necessary to keep it in its place in some of the heavy gales that sometimes happen even at that time of year; in a very heavy north-westerly gale it would hardly have been clear of the wash of the waves at high water. the wren is included in professor ansted's list, but marked as only occurring in guernsey. there is no specimen in the museum. 46. tree-creeper. _certhia familiaris_, linnaeus. french, "grimpereau," "grimpereau familier."--the tree-creeper is resident and not uncommon in all the islands, except perhaps alderney, in which island i have never seen it. in guernsey it may be seen in most of the wooded parts, and frequently near the town, in the trees on the lawns at candie, castle carey, and in the new ground. i have never seen it take to the rocks near the sea, like the wren. it is mentioned in professor ansted's list, and marked as occurring in guernsey and sark. there is no specimen in the museum. 47. great tit. _parus major_, linnaeus. french, "mésange charbonnière."--the paridae are by no means well represented in the islands, either individually or as to number of species; and the guernsey gardeners can have very little cause to grumble at damage done to the buds by the tits. the great tit is moderately common and resident in guernsey, but by no means so common as in england. during the whole two months i was in the island this last summer, 1878, i only saw two or three great tits, and this quite agrees with my experience in june and july, 1866, and at other times. the great tit is included in professor ansted's list, but only marked by him as occurring in sark. 48. blue tit. _parus caeruleus_, linnaeus. french, "mésange bleue."--like the great tit, the blue tit is resident in all the islands, but by no means numerous. in guernsey it is pretty generally distributed over the more cultivated parts, but nowhere so numerous as in england. it is included in professor ansted's list, and marked as occurring in guernsey and sark. i have not included either the cole tit or the marsh tit in this list, as i have never seen either bird in the islands, and have not been able to find that they are at all known either in guernsey or any of the other islands. professor ansted, however, includes the cole tit in his list, and marks it as occurring in guernsey, but no other information whatever is given about it; and there is no specimen in the museum, as there is of both the great and the blue tits. i have not succeeded in getting a specimen myself. 49. long-tailed tit. _acredula caudata_, linnaeus. french, "másange à longue queue."[10]--the long-tailed tit is certainly far from common in guernsey at present, and i have never seen it in the islands myself. but mr. macculloch writes me word--"the long-tailed tit is, or at least was, far from uncommon. probably the destruction of orchards may have rendered it less common. the nest was generally placed in the forked branch of an apple-tree, and so covered with grey lichens as to be almost indistinguishable. i remember, in my youth, finding a nest in a juniper-bush." it is included in professor ansted's list, and marked as occurring in guernsey and sark. there is, however, no specimen now in the museum. i am very doubtful as to whether i ought to include the bearded tit, _panurus biarmicus_ of linnaeus, in this list. there are a pair in the museum, but these may have been obtained in france or england. one of mr. de putron's men, however, described a bird he had shot in the reeds in mr. de putron's pond in the vale, and certainly his description sounded very much as if it had been a bearded tit; but the bird had been thrown away directly after it was shot, and there was no chance of verifying the description. 50. waxwing. _ampelis garrulus_, linnaeus. french, "jaseur de bohême," "grand jaseur."--as would seem probable from its occasional appearance in nearly every county in england, the waxwing does occasionally make its appearance in guernsey as a straggler. i have never seen it myself, but mr. macculloch writes me word--"i have known the bohemian waxwing killed here on several occasions, but have not the date." an interesting account of the nesting habits of this bird, and the discovery of the nests and eggs by mr. wolley, was published by professor newton in the 'ibis' for 1861, and will be found also in dresser's 'birds of europe.' and in the new edition of 'yarrell,' by professor newton. it is included in professor ansted's list, and marked as occurring in guernsey; and there is one specimen in the museum. 51. pied wagtail. _motacilla lugubris_, temminck. french, "bergeronette yarrellii."[11]--the pied wagtail has probably been better known to some of my readers as _motacilla yarrellii_, but, according to the rules of nomenclature before alluded to, _motacilla lugubris_ of temminck seems to have superseded the probably better-known name of _motacilla yarrellii_. for some reason or other the pied wagtail has grown much more scarce in guernsey than it used to be; at one time it was common even about the town, running about by the gutters in the street, and several were generally to be seen on the lawn at candie. but this last summer--that of 1878--i did not see one about candie, or indeed anywhere else, except one pair which were breeding near the vale church; and when there in november, 1875, i only saw one, and that was near vazon bay. mr. macculloch has also noticed this growing scarcity of the pied wagtail, as he writes to me--"of late years, for some reason or other, wagtails of all sorts have become rare." in the summer of 1866, however, i found the pied wagtail tolerably common. it is included in professor ansted's list, and marked as occurring in guernsey and sark. 52. white wagtail. _motacilla alba_, linnaeus. french, "lavendière," "hoche-queue grise," "bergeronette grise."--the white wagtail is still scarcer than the pied, but i saw one pair evidently breeding between l'ancresse road and grand havre. the white wagtail so much resembles the pied wagtail, that it may have been easily overlooked, and may be more common than is generally known. the fully adult birds may easily be distinguished, especially when in full breeding plumage, as the back of the pied wagtail is black, while that of the white wagtail is grey. after the autumnal moult, however, the distinction is not quite so easy, as the feathers of the pied wagtail are then margined with grey, which rather conceals the colour beneath; but if the feathers are lifted up they will be found to be black under the grey margins. the young birds of the year, in their first feathers, cannot be distinguished, and the same may be said of the eggs. the white wagtail is included in professor ansted's list, but marked as only occurring in guernsey. there is no specimen either of the pied or white wagtail in the museum. 53. grey wagtail. _motacilla melanope_, pallas. french, "bergeronette jaune."--the grey wagtail is by no means common in the islands, though it may occasionally remain to breed, as i have seen it both in guernsey and sark between the 21st of june and the end of july in 1866, but i have not seen it in any of the islands during the autumn. it is, however, no doubt an occasional, though never very numerous, winter visitant, probably more common, however, at this time of year than in the summer, as i have one in winter plumage shot in guernsey in december, and another in january, 1879, and there is also one in the museum in winter plumage. professor ansted includes it in his list, and marks it as occurring in guernsey and sark. 54. yellow wagtail. _motacilla raii_, bonaparte. french, "bergeronnette flavéole."--as far as i have been able to judge the yellow wagtail is only an occasional visitant on migration. a few, however, may sometimes remain to breed. i have one channel island specimen killed in guernsey the last week in march. mr. macculloch, however, writes me word that in some years they--_i.e._, yellow wagtails--are not very uncommon, but of late, for some reason or other, wagtails of all sorts have become rare. he adds--"i am under the impression that we have more than one yellow wagtail." it is, therefore, possible that the greyheaded wagtail, the true _motacilla flava_ of linnaeus, may occasionally occur, or in consequence of the bright yellow of portions of its plumage the last-mentioned species--the grey wagtail--may have been mistaken for a second species of yellow wagtail. i have not myself seen the yellow wagtail in either of the islands during my summer visits in 1866, 1876, or 1878; so it certainly cannot be very common during the breeding-season, or i could scarcely have missed seeing it. professor ansted has not included it in his list, and there is no specimen at present in the museum. 55. tree pipit. _anthus trivialis_, linnaeus. french, "pipit des arbres," "pipit des buissons."--a very numerous summer visitant to all the islands, breeding in great numbers in the parts suited to it. in the vale it was very common, many of the furze-bushes on l'ancresse common containing nests. the old male might constantly be seen flying up from the highest twigs of the furze-bush, singing its short song as it hovered over the bush, and returning again to the top branch of that or some neighbouring bush. this continued till about the middle of july, when the young were mostly hatched, and many of them flown and following their parents about clamorous for food, which was plentiful in the vale in the shape of numerous small beetles, caterpillars, and very small snails. the young were mostly hatched by the beginning of july, but i found one nest with young still in it in a furze-bush about ten yards from high water-mark as late as the 27th of july, but the young were all flown when i visited the nest two days afterwards. the tree pipits have all departed by the middle of october, and i have never seen any there in november. the tree pipit is mentioned in professor ansted's list, but no letters marking the distribution of the species amongst the islands are given. there is no specimen of this or either of the other pipits in the museum. 56. meadow pipit. _anthus pratensis_, linnaeus. french, "le cujelier," "pipit des prés," "pipit farlouse."--the meadow pipit is resident and breeds in all the islands, but is by no means so numerous as the tree pipit is during the summer. i think, however, its numbers are slightly increased in the autumn, about the time of the departure of the tree pipits, by migrants. it is included by professor ansted in his list, but marked as occurring only in guernsey. 57. rock pipit. _anthus obscurus_, latham. french, "pipit obsur," "pipit spioncelle."--resident and numerous, breeding amongst the rocks and round the coast of all the islands. it is also common in all the small outlying islands, such as burhou, and all the little rocky islands that stretch out to the northward of herm, and are especially the home of the puffin and the lesser black-backed gull. on all of these the rock pipit may be found breeding, but its nest is generally so well concealed amongst the thrift samphire, wild stock, and other seaside plants which grow rather rankly amongst those rocks, considering how little soil there generally is for them and what wild storms they are subject to, that it is by no means easy to find it, though one may almost see the bird leave the nest. the bock pipit is included in professor ansted's list, but marked as only occurring in guernsey. all the rock pipits i have seen in the channel islands have been the common form, _anthus obscurus_; i have never seen one of the rufous-breasted examples which occur in scandinavia and the baltic, and have by some been separated as a distinct species under the name of _anthus rupestris_. 58. sky lark. _alauda arvensis_, linnaeus. french, "alouette des champs."--mr. métivier, in his 'dictionary,' gives houèdre as the local guernsey-french name of the sky lark. as may be supposed by its having a local name, it is a common and well-known bird, and is resident in all the islands. i have not been able to find that its numbers are much increased by migrants at any time of year, though probably in severe weather in the winter the sky larks flock a good deal, as they do in england. the sky lark breeds in all the islands, and occasionally places its nest in such exposed situations that it is wonderful how the young escape. one nest we found by a roadside near ronceval; it was within arm's length of the road, and seemed exposed to every possible danger. when we found it, on the 15th of june, there were five eggs in it, fresh, or, at all events, only just sat on, as i took one and blew it for one of my daughters. on the 19th we again visited the nest; there were then four young ones in it, but they were so wonderfully like the dry grass which surrounded the nest in colour that it was more difficult to find it then than when the eggs were in it, and except for the young birds moving as they breathed i think we should not have found it a second time. a few days after--july the 3rd--there was very heavy rain all night. next day we thought the sky larks must be drowned (had they been partridges under the care of a keeper they would have been), but as it was only one was washed out of the nest and drowned; the rest were all well and left the nest a few days after. so in spite of the exposed situation close to a frequented road, on a bit of common ground where goats and cows were tethered, nets and seaweed, or "vraic," as it is called in guernsey, spread for drying, dogs, cats, and children continually wandering about, and without any shelter from rain, the old birds brought off three young from their five eggs. the sky lark is mentioned in professor ansted's list as occurring only in guernsey and sark. it is, however, quite as common in alderney and herm. there is no specimen in the museum. 59. snow bunting. _plectrophanes nivalis_, linnaeus. french, "ortolan de neige," "bruant de neige."--the snow bunting is probably a regular, though never very numerous, autumnal visitant, remaining on into the winter. it seems to be more numerous in some years than others. mr. mac culloch tells me a good many snow buntings were seen in november, 1850. mr. couch records one in the 'zoologist' for 1874 as having been killed at cobo on the 28th of september of that year. this seems rather an early date. when i was in guernsey in november, 1875, i saw a few flocks of snow buntings, and one--a young bird of the year--which had been killed by a boy with a catapult, was brought into couch's shop about the same time, and i have one killed at st. martin's, guernsey, in november, 1878; and captain hubbach writes me word that he shot three out of a flock of five in alderney in january, 1863. professor ansted mentions the snow bunting in his list as occurring in guernsey and sark, and there is a specimen at present in the museum. 60. bunting. _emberiza miliaria_, linnaeus. french, "le proyer," "bruant proyer."--the bunting is resident in guernsey and breeds there, but in very small numbers, and it is very local in its distribution. i have seen a few in the vale. i saw two or three about the grounds of the vallon in july, 1878, which were probably the parents and their brood which had been hatched somewhere in the grounds. it is mentioned in professor ansted's list as occurring only in guernsey. there is one specimen in the museum. 61. yellow hammer. _emberiza citrinella_, linnaeus. french, "bruant jaune."--the yellow hammer, though resident and breeding in all the islands, is by no means as common as in many parts of england. in alderney perhaps it is rather more common than in guernsey, as i saw some near the artillery barracks this summer, 1878, and captain hubbach told me he had seen two or three pairs about there all the year. in guernsey, on the other hand, i did not see one this summer, 1878. i have, however, shot a young bird there which certainly could not have been long out of the nest. i have never seen the cirl bunting in any of the islands, nor has it, as far as i know, been recorded from them, which seems rather surprising, as it is common on the south coast of devon, and migratory, but not numerous, on the north coast of france;[12] so it is very probable that it may yet occur. the yellow hammer is included in professor ansted's list, and marked as occurring in guernsey and sark. there are also a pair in the museum. 62. chaffinch. _fringilla caelebs_, linnaeus. french, "pinson ordinaire," "grosbec pinson."--the chaffinch is resident, tolerably common, and generally distributed throughout the islands, but is nowhere so common as in england. in guernsey this year, 1878, it seemed to me rather to have decreased in numbers, as i saw very few,--certainly not so many as in former years,--though i could not find that there was any reason for the decrease. it is, of course, mentioned in professor ansted's list, but by him only marked as occurring in guernsey and sark. there is only one--a female--at present in the museum. 63. brambling. _fringilla montifringilla_, linnaeus. french, "pinson d'ardennes." "grosbec d'ardennes."--the brambling can only be considered an occasional autumn and winter visitant, and probably never very numerous. i have never seen the bird in the channel islands myself. i have, however, one specimen--a female--killed in brock road, guernsey, in december, 1878, and i have been informed by mr. macculloch that he had a note of the occurrence of the brambling or mountain finch in january, 1855. it cannot, however, be looked upon as anything more than a very rare occasional straggler, by no means occurring every year. it is mentioned in professor ansted's list, and marked as occurring in guernsey and sark. there is no specimen at present in the museum. 64. tree sparrow. _passer montanus_, linnaeus. french, "friquet."--the tree sparrow breeds, and is probably resident in the islands. up to this year, 1878, i have only seen it once myself, and that was on the 7th of june, 1876, just outside the grounds of the vallon in guernsey. from the date and from the behaviour of the bird i have no doubt it had a nest just inside the grounds. i could not then, however, make any great search for the nest without trespassing, though i got sufficiently near the bird to be certain of its identity. this year, 1878, i could not see one anywhere about the vallon, either inside or outside the grounds. i saw, however, one or two about the vale, but they were very scarce. i have not myself seen the tree sparrow in any of the other islands. it is included in professor ansted's list, and marked as occurring in sark only. i have not seen a specimen at mr. couch's, or any of the other bird-stuffers, but there is one in the museum and some eggs, all of which are probably guernsey. 65. house sparrow. _passer domesticus_, linnaeus. french, "moineau domestique," "grosbec moineau."--the house sparrow is very numerous throughout the islands, abounding where there are any buildings inhabited by either man, horses, or cattle. in the gardens near the town of st. peter's port, in guernsey, it is very common, and does a considerable amount of mischief. it is, however, by no means confined to the parts near the town, as many were nesting in some ilex trees near the house we had on l'ancresse common, although the house had been empty since the previous summer, and the garden uncultivated; so food till we came must have been rather scarce about there. as the wheat is coming into ear the sparrows, as in england, leave the neighbourhood of the town and other buildings and spread themselves generally over the country, for the purpose of devouring the young wheat while just coming into ear and still soft. in alderney, owing probably in a great measure to the absence of cottages, farm-buildings, and stables at a distance from the town, and also perhaps owing to the absence of hedges, it is not so numerous in the open part, and consequently not so mischievous, being mostly confined to the town, and to the buildings about the harbour-works. the young wheat, however, is still a temptation, and is accordingly punished by the sparrows. the house sparrow is mentioned by professor ansted in his list, but no letters are given marking the general distribution over the islands, probably because it is so generally spread over them. the local guernsey-french name is "grosbec," for which see métivier's 'dictionary.' 66. hawfinch. _coccothraustes vulgaris_, pallas. french, "grosbec."--the hawfinch or grosbeak, as it is occasionally called, is by no means common in guernsey, and i have never seen it there myself, but i have a skin of one killed in the catel parish in december, 1878; and mr. macculloch informs me it occasionally visits that island in autumn, but in consequence of its shy and retiring habits it has probably been occasionally overlooked, and escaped the notice of the numerous gunners to whom it would otherwise have more frequently fallen a victim. the bird-stuffer and carpenter in alderney had one spread out on a board and hung up behind his door, which had been shot by his friend who shot the greenland falcon, in the winter of 1876 and 1877, somewhere about christmas. i know no instance of its remaining to breed in the islands, though it may occasionally do so in guernsey, as there are many places suited to it, and in which it might well make its nest without being observed. as it seems increasing in numbers throughout england, it is by no means improbable that it will visit the channel islands more frequently. the hawfinch is included in professor ansted's list, and by him marked as occurring only in guernsey. there are two specimens in the museum. 67. greenfinch. _coccothraustes chloris_, linnaeus. french, "grosbec verdier," "verdier ordinaire."--the greenfinch is a common resident, and breeds in all the islands, but is certainly not quite so common as in england. it is more numerous perhaps in guernsey and sark than in alderney; it is also pretty common in jethou and herm. it is included in professor ansted's list, but only marked as occurring in guernsey and sark. there is no specimen in the museum. 68. goldfinch. _carduelis elegans_, stephens. french, "chardonneret," "grosbec chardonneret."--the goldfinch is resident in and breeds in all the islands. in guernsey i was told a few years ago that it had been much more numerous than it then was, the bird-catchers having had a good deal to answer for in having shortened its numbers. it is now, however, again increasing its numbers, as i saw many more this year (1878) than i had seen before at any time of year. there were several about the grand mare, and probably had nests there, and i saw an old pair, with their brood out, at st. george on the 5th of june, and soon after another brood about mr. de putron's pond, where they were feeding on the seeds of some thistles which were growing on the rough ground about the pond. i have also seen a few in alderney; and captain hubbach writes me word that the goldfinch was quite plentiful here (alderney) in the winter of 1862 and 1863. but he adds--"i have not seen one here this year." so probably its numbers are occasionally increased by migratory flocks in the winter. professor ansted includes the goldfinch in his list, but marks it as occurring only in guernsey and sark. there is no specimen in the museum. 69. siskin. _carduelis spinus_, linnaeus. french, "tarin," "grosbec tarin."--the siskin can only be looked upon as an occasional, accidental visitant--indeed, i only know of one instance of its occurrence, and that is recorded by mr. couch at p. 4296 of the 'zoologist' for 1875 in the following words:--"i have the first recognised specimen of the siskin; a boy knocked it down with a stone in an orchard at the vrangue in september." this communication is dated november, 1874. i have never seen the siskin in any of the channel islands myself, and mr. macculloch writes me word--"i have never heard of a siskin here, but, being migratory, it may occur." i see, however, no reason to doubt mr. couch's statement in the 'zoologist,' as the bird was brought into his shop. he must have had plenty of opportunity of identifying it, though he does not tell us whether he preserved it. there can, however, be no possible reason why the siskin should not occasionally visit guernsey on migration, as it extends its southern journey through spain to the mediterranean and across to the north-western coast of africa; and the channel islands would seem to lie directly in its way. the siskin, however, is not mentioned in professor ansted's list, and there is no specimen at present in the museum. 70. linnet. _linota cannabina_, linnaeus. french, "linotte," "grosbec linotte."--the linnet is resident and the most numerous bird in the islands by far, outnumbering even the house sparrow, and it is equally common and breeds in all the islands. the channel islands linnets always appear to me extremely bright-coloured, the scarlet on the head and breast during the breeding-season being brighter than in any british birds i have ever seen. though the linnet is itself so numerous, it is, as far as i have been able to ascertain, the only representative of its family to be found in the channel islands; at least i have never seen and had no information of the occurrence of either the lesser redpole, the mealy redpole, or the twite, though i can see no reason why each of these birds should not occasionally occur. the linnet is included in professor ansted's list, but marked by him as only occurring in guernsey and sark; and there is a specimen in the museum. 71. bullfinch. _pyrrhula europaea_, vieillot. french, "bovreuil commun."--miss c.b. carey, in the 'zoologist' for 1874, mentions a bullfinch having been brought into couch's shop in november of that year, and adds--"this bird is much more common in jersey than it is here." miss carey is certainly right as to its not being common in guernsey, as i have never seen the bird on any of my expeditions to that island, nor have i seen it in either of the other islands which come within my district. professor ansted includes the bullfinch in his list, but oddly enough only marks it as occurring in guernsey and sark, although mr. gallienne, in his remarks published with the list, says--"the bullfinch occasionally breeds in jersey, but is rarely seen in guernsey," so far agreeing with miss carey's note in the 'zoologist,' but he does not add anything about sark. there is no specimen in the museum. 72. common crossbill. _loxia curvirostra_, linnaeus. french, "bec-croisé," "bec-croisé commun."--the crossbill is an occasional visitant to all the islands, and sometimes in considerable numbers, but, as in england, it is perfectly irregular as to the time of year it chooses for its visits. mr. macculloch writes me word--"the crossbill is most uncertain in its visits. many years will sometimes pass without a single one being heard of. when they do come it is generally in large flocks. i have known them arrive in early autumn, and do great havoc amongst the apples, which they cut up to get at the pips. sometimes they make their appearance in the winter, seemingly driven from the continent by the cold." my first acquaintance with the crossbill was in sark on the 25th of june, 1866, when i saw a very fine red-plumaged bird in a small fir-plantation in the grounds of the lord of sark. it was very tame, and allowed me to approach it very closely. i did not see any others at that time amongst the fir-trees, though no doubt a few others were there. on my return to guernsey on the following day i was requested by a bird-catcher to name some birds that were doing considerable damage in the gardens about the town. thinking from having seen the one in sark, and from his description, that the birds might be crossbills, i asked him to get me one or two, which he said he could easily do, as the people were destroying them on account of the damage they did. in a day or two he brought me one live and two dead crossbills, and told me that as many as forty had been shot in one person's garden. the two dead ones he brought me were one in red and the other in green plumage, and the live one was in green plumage. this one i brought home and kept in my aviary till march, 1868, when it was killed by a hawk striking it through the wires. it was, however, still in the same green plumage when it was killed as it was when i brought it home, though it had moulted twice. the crossbill did not appear at that time to be very well known in guernsey, as neither the bird-catcher nor the people in whose gardens the birds were had ever seen them before or knew what they were. this year (1866), however, appears to have been rather an exceptional year with regard to crossbills, as i find some recorded in the 'zoologist' from norfolk, the isle of wight, sussex, and henley-on-thames, about the same time; therefore there must have been a rather widely-spread flight. from that time i did not hear any more of crossbills in the islands till december, 1876, when mr. couch sent me a skin of one in reddish plumage, writing at the same time to say--"the crossbill i sent from its being so late in the season when it was shot--the 11th of december; there were four of them in a tree by haviland hall. i happened to go into the person's house who shot it, and his children had it playing with." i do not know that there is any evidence of the crossbill ever having bred in the islands, though it seems to have made its appearance there at almost all times of year. mr. macculloch mentions its feeding on the apple-pips, and doing damage in the orchards accordingly, and i know it is generally supposed to do so, and has in some places got the name of "shell apple" in consequence, but though i have several times kept crossbills tame, and frequently tried to indulge them with apples and pips, i have never found them care much about them; and a note of professor newton's, in his edition of 'yarrell,' seems to agree with this. he says:--"of late it has not been often observed feeding on apples, very possibly owing to the greatly-increased growth of firs, and especially larches, throughout the country. in germany it does not seem ever to have been known as attacking fruit-trees." the crossbill is included in professor ansted's list, and only marked as occurring in guernsey and sark. there is no specimen in the museum. 73. common starling. _sturnus vulgaris_, linnaeus. french, "etourneau vulgaire."--the starling is sometimes very numerous in the autumn, but those remaining throughout the year and breeding in the island are certainly very few in number, as i have never seen the starling in any of my summer visits; and mr. macculloch tells me "the starling may possibly still breed here, but it certainly is not common in summer. a century ago it used to nest in the garrets in the heart of the town." as to its not being common in summer, that quite agrees with my own experience, but a few certainly do breed in the island still, or did so within a very few years, as miss c.b. carey had eggs in her collection taken in the island in 1873 or 1874, and i have seen eggs in other guernsey collections, besides those in the museum. when i was in guernsey in november, 1871, starlings were certainly unusually plentiful, even for the autumn, very large flocks making their appearance in all parts of the island, and in the evening very large flocks might be seen flying and wheeling about in all directions before going to roost. many of these flocks i saw fly off in the direction of jersey and the french coast, and they certainly continued their flight in that direction as long as i could follow them with my glass, but whether they were only going to seek a roosting-place and to return in the morning, or whether they continued their migration and their place was supplied by other flocks during the night, i could not tell, but certainly there never seemed to be any diminution in their numbers during the whole time i was there from the 1st to the 16th of november. i think it not at all improbable that many of these flocks only roosted out of the island and returned, as even here in somerset they collect in large flocks before going to roost, and fly long distances, sometimes quite over the quantock hills, to some favourite roosting-place they have selected, and return in the morning, and the distance would in many places be nearly as great. these flocks of starlings seem to have continued in the island quite into the winter, as miss carey notes, in the 'zoologist' for 1872, seeing a flock in the field before the house at candie close to the town as late as the 6th of december, 1871. at the same time that there were so many in guernsey, starlings were reported as unusually numerous in alderney, but how long the migratory flocks remained there i have not been able to ascertain. the starling is included in professor ansted's list, but marked as only occurring in guernsey and sark. there are two specimens in the museum and some eggs. 74. chough. _pyrrhocorax graculus_, linnaeus. french, "crave."--the chough is a common resident in guernsey, breeding amongst the high rocks on the south and east part of the island, and in the autumn and winter spreading over the cultivated parts of the island, sometimes in considerable flocks, like rooks. as jackdaws are by no means numerous in guernsey, and as far as i have been able to make out never breed there, the choughs have it all their own way, and quite keep up their numbers, even if they do not increase them, which i think very doubtful, though i can see no reason why they should not, as their eggs are always laid in holes in the cliffs, and very difficult to get at, and at other times of year the birds are very wary, and take good care of themselves, it being by no means easy to get a shot at them, unless by stalking them up behind a hedge or rock; and as they are not good eating, and will not sell in the market like fieldfares and redwings, no guernsey man thinks of expending powder and shot on them; so though not included in the guernsey bird act, the choughs on the whole have an easy time of it in guernsey, and ought to increase in numbers more than they apparently do. in sark the choughs have by no means so easy a time, as the jackdaws outnumber them about the cliffs, and will probably eventually drive them out of the island--indeed, i am afraid they have done this in alderney, as i did not see any when there in the summer of 1876, nor in this last summer (1878); and captain hubbach writes me word he has seen none in alderney himself this year (1878). i, however, saw some there in previous visits, but now for some reason, probably the increase of jackdaws, the choughs appear to me nearly, if not quite, to have deserted that island. in herm and jethou there are also a few choughs, but jackdaws are the more numerous in both islands. no choughs appear to inhabit the small rocky islets to the northward of herm, though some of them appear to be large enough to afford a breeding-place for either choughs or jackdaws, but neither of these birds seem to have taken possession of them; probably want of food is the occasion of this. mr. métivier, in his 'rimes guernseaise,' gives "cahouette" as the local guernsey-french name of the chough, though i suspect the name is equally applicable to the jackdaw. the chough is mentioned in professor ansted's list, but marked as only occurring in guernsey and sark. there are two specimens in the museum. 75. jackdaw. _corvus monedula_, linnaeus. french, "choucas," "choucas gris."--i am quite aware that many guernsey people will tell you that there are no jackdaws in guernsey, but that their place is entirely taken by choughs. mr. macculloch seems to be nearly of this opinion, as he writes me--"i suppose you are right in saying there are a few jackdaws in guernsey, but i do not remember ever to have seen one here;" and he adds--"i believe they are common in alderney," which is certainly the case; as i said above, they have almost, if not quite, supplanted the choughs there. there are, however, certainly a few jackdaws in guernsey, as i have seen them there on several occasions, but i cannot say that any breed there, and i think they are only occasional wanderers from the other islands, sark, jethou, and herm, where they do breed. mr. gallienne's note to professor ansted's list seems to agree very much with this, as he says--"the jackdaw, which is a regular visitor to alderney, is rarely seen in guernsey." it is now, however, resident in alderney, as well as in sark, jethou, and herm. it is mentioned in professor ansted's list, but only marked as occurring in guernsey and sark, nothing being said about alderney and the other islands in spite of mr. gallienne's note. there is no specimen at present in the museum. 76. raven. _corvus corax_, linnaeus. french, "corbeau," "corbeau noir."--the raven can now only be looked upon as an occasional straggler. i do not think it breeds at present in any of the islands, as i have not seen it anywhere about in the breeding-season since 1866, when i saw a pair near the cliffs on the south-end of the island in june; but as the raven is a very early breeder, these may have only been wanderers. it is probably getting scarcer in guernsey, as i have not seen any there since; and the last note i have of ravens being seen in the island is in a letter from mr. couch, who wrote me word that two ravens had been seen and shot at several times, but not obtained, in november, 1873. i have not seen a raven in any of the other islands, and do not know of one having occurred there. professor ansted includes it in his list, and marks it as only occurring in guernsey. there is no specimen at present in the museum. 77. crow. _corvus corone_, linnaeus. french, "corneille noire."--the crow is pretty common, and breeds in most of the islands, and probably at times commits considerable depredations amongst the eggs and young of the gulls and shags--at all events it is by no means a welcome visitor to the breeding stations of the gulls, as in this summer (1878) i saw four crows about a small gullery near petit bo bay, one of which flew over the side of the cliff to have a look at the gulls' eggs, probably with ulterior intentions in regard to the eggs; but one of the gulls saw him, and immediately flew at him and knocked him over: what the end of the fight was i could not tell, but probably the crow got the worst of it, as several other gulls went off to join their companion as soon as they heard the row; and the crows trespassed no more on the domain of the gulls--at least whilst i was there, which was some time. professor ansted includes the crow in his list, but only marks it as occurring in guernsey and sark. there is no specimen in the museum. 78. hooded crow. _corvus cornix_, linnaeus. french, "corbeau mantele," "corneille mantelée."--the hooded crow can only be considered an occasional autumnal and winter visitant. i have never seen it myself in the islands, though many of my visits to guernsey have been in the autumn. mr. couch, however, reports a small flock of hooded crows being in guernsey in november, 1873, one of which was obtained. mr. macculloch writes me word that the hooded crow is a very rare visitant, and only, as far as he knows, in very cold weather; and he adds--"it is strange that we should see it so rarely, as it is very common about st. maloes." colonel l'estrange, however, informed me that one remained in sark all last summer--that of 1877--and paired with a common crow,[13] but we could see nothing of the couple this year. i believe it is not at all uncommon for these birds to pair in scotland and other places where both species are numerous in the breeding-season, but this is the only instance i have heard of in the channel islands--in fact, it is the only time i have heard of the hooded crow remaining on till the summer. the hooded crow is included in professor ansted's list, and marked as occurring in guernsey and sark; and there are two specimens in the museum. 79. rook. _corvus frugilegus_, linnaeus. french, "freux", "corbeau freux."--i have never seen the rook in the islands myself, even as a stranger, but mr. gallienne in his notes to professor ansted's list, says, speaking of guernsey, "the rook has tried two or three times to colonise, but in vain, having been destroyed or frightened away." mr. macculloch also writes me word much to the same effect, as he says "i have known rooks occasionally attempt to build here (guernsey), but they are invariably disturbed by boys and guns, and driven off. they sometimes arrive here in large flocks in severe winters." the rook is mentioned in professor ansted's list as occurring in guernsey only, and there are two specimens in the museum, both probably guernsey killed. 80. magpie. _pica rustica_, scopoli. french, "pie", "pie ordinaire."--the magpie is resident and tolerably common in guernsey, breeding in several parts of the island; it is also resident, but i think not quite so common, in sark. i do not remember having seen it in alderney, and the almost entire absence of trees would probably prevent it being anything more than an occasional visitant to that island. it is included in professor ansted's list, but marked as only occurring in guernsey; and there are two specimens in the museum. 81. lesser spotted woodpecker. _picus minor_, linnaeus. french, "pie épeichette."--as may be expected, the woodpeckers are not strongly represented in the islands, and the present species, the lesser spotted woodpecker, is the only one as to the occurrence of which i can get any satisfactory evidence. professor ansted, however, includes the greater spotted woodpecker in his list, and marks it as occurring in guernsey only; and there is one specimen of the green woodpecker, _gecinus viridis_, in the museum, but there is no note whatever as to its locality; so under these circumstances i have not thought it right to include either species. but as to the occurrence of the lesser spotted woodpecker, though i have not seen it myself, nor have i a channel island specimen, i have some more evidence; for in reply to some questions of mine on the subject, mr. couch wrote to me in april, 1877, "respecting the woodpecker, you may fully rely on the lesser spotted as having been shot here, four examples having passed through my hands; and writing from memory i will, as near as possible, tell you when and where they were shot. i took a shop here in 1866. in the month of august, 1867, there was one brought to me alive, shot in the water lanes, just under smith's nursery by a young gent at the college; he wounded it in the wing. i wanted too much to stuff it (2s. 6d.); he took the poor bird out, fixed it somewhere; he and his companions fired at it so often they blew it to atoms. the same year, early in september, one was shot at st. martin's; i stuffed that for a lady: there were four in the same tree; the day following they were not to be found. the second week in october, the same year i had one, and stuffed it for the person who shot it out at st. saviour's; there were two besides in the same tree, but i had neither one myself. in 1868, i stuffed one that was shot at st. peter's, in december; it was taken home the christmas eve. these were all i have had, but i have heard of their being seen about since, twice or three times." in addition to this letter, which i have no reason to doubt, mr. macculloch wrote me word--"we have in the museum a lesser spotted woodpecker, shot near havilland hall, in november, 1855; i saw it before it was stuffed." this bird was not in the museum this year, (1878), as i looked everywhere for it, so i suppose it was moth-eaten and thrown away, like many others of the best specimens in the museum, after the years of neglect they have been subject to. from these letters, there can be no doubt whatever that the lesser spotted woodpecker has been occasionally procured in guernsey, and that it may be considered either an occasional autumnal visitant, remaining on into winter, or, what is more probable, a thinly-scattered resident. it is included in professor ansted's list, and marked as only occurring in guernsey. as above stated, the specimen formerly in the museum no longer exists. 82. wryneck. _yunx torquilla_, linnaeus. french, "torcol ordinaire."--the wryneck, or, as it is called in guernsey-french, "parlè"[14] is generally a numerous summer visitant to the islands, arriving in considerable numbers, about the same time as the mackerel, wherefore it has also obtained the local name of "mackerel bird." it is generally distributed through the islands, remaining through the summer to breed, and departing again in early autumn, august, or september. its numbers, however, vary considerably in different years, as in some summers i have seen wrynecks in almost every garden, hedgerow, or thick bush in the island; always when perched, sitting across the branches or twigs, on which they were perched, and never longways or climbing, as would be the case with a woodpecker or creeper; and the noise made by the birds during the breeding-season, was, in some years, incessant; this was particularly the case in the early part of the summer of 1866, when the birds were very numerous, and the noise made was so great that on one occasion i was told that the mackerel birds seriously interrupted a scientific game of _croquet_, which was going on at fort george, by the noise they made; i can quite believe it, as, though i was not playing in the game, i heard the birds very noisy in other parts of the island. this last summer, however (1878), i saw very few wrynecks--only four or five during the whole of the two months i was in the islands, and hardly heard them at all. it is included in professor ansted's list, but only marked as occurring in guernsey and sark. there are two specimens in the museum. 83. hoopoe. _upupa epops_, linnaeus. french, "la huppé," "huppé ordinaire."--the hoopoe, as may be supposed from its geographical range and from its frequent occurrence in various parts of england, is an occasional visitant to the channel islands during the seasons of migration, occurring both in spring and autumn with sufficient frequency to have gained the name of "tuppe" in guernsey-french. though occurring in spring and autumn, i am not aware that it ever remains to breed, though perhaps it might do so if not shot on every possible occasion. this shooting of every straggler to the channel islands is a great pity, especially with the spring arrivals, as some of them might well be expected to remain to breed occasionally if left undisturbed; and the proof of the hoopoe breeding in the channel islands would be much more interesting than the mere possession of a specimen of so common and well-known a bird: if a local specimen should be wanted, it could be obtained equally well in autumn, when there would be no question as to the breeding. the autumn arrivals seem also to be most numerous, at least judging from the specimens recorded during the last four or five years, as mr. couch records one, a female, shot near ronseval, in guernsey, on the 26th of september; and another also in guernsey, shot on the 23rd of september; i have one, obtained in alderney in august, though i have not the exact date; and another picked up in a lane in st. martin's parish, in guernsey, on the 24th of august. during the same time i only know of one spring occurrence; that was on april the 10th of this year (1878), when two were seen, and one shot in herm, as recorded in the 'star' newspaper, for april the 13th; this one i saw soon afterwards at mr. jago's, the bird-stuffer. these birds were probably paired, and would therefore very likely have bred in herm, had one of them not been shot, and the other accordingly driven to look for a mate elsewhere. it would pay, as well as be interesting, as i remarked in a note to the 'star' in reference to this occurrence of the pair of hoopoe's, to encourage these birds to breed in the islands whenever they shewed a disposition to do so, as, though rather a foul-feeder and of unsavoury habits in its nest, and having no respect for sanitary arrangements, the hoopoe is nevertheless one of the most useful birds in the garden. the hoopoe is included in professor ansted's list, but only marked as occurring in guernsey and sark. there are now only two specimens in the museum, and these have no note of date or locality, but a few years ago there were several more, and one or two i remember were marked as having been killed in the spring; the rest were probably autumnal specimens. 84. cuckoo. _cuculus canorus_, linnaeus. french, "coucou gris."--the cuckoo is one of the commonest and most numerous summer visitants to the islands, and is generally spread over all of them; it arrives about the same time that it does in england, that is to say, about the middle of april. i know earlier instances--even as early as february--have been recorded, but these must have been recorded in consequence of some mistake, probably some particularly successful imitation of the note. mr. macculloch seems to think that the time of their arrival is very regular, as he writes to me to say, "the cuckoo generally arrives here about the 15th of april; sometimes as early as the 13th, as was the case this year (1878); the first are generally reported from the cliffs at st. martin's, near moulin huet, the first land they would make on their arrival from brittany." very soon after their arrival, however, they spread over the whole island of guernsey, as well as all the other neighbouring islands, in all of which they are equally plentiful; they seem to cross from one to the other without much considering four or five miles of sea, or being the least particular as to taking the shortest passage across from island to island. as usual, there were a great number of cuckoos in the vale whilst i was there this summer (1878); but i was unfortunate in not finding eggs, and in not seeing any of the foster-parents feeding their over-grown _protégés_: this was rather surprising, as there were so many cuckoos about, and many must have been hatched and out of the nest long before we left at the end of july. i should think, however, tree and meadow pipits, skylarks and stonechats, from their numbers and the numbers of their nests, must be the foster-parents most usually selected; other favourites, such as wagtails, hedgesparrows, and robins, being comparatively scarce in that part of the island, and wheaters, which were numerous, had their nests too far under large stones to give the cuckoo an opportunity of depositing her eggs there. i should have been very glad if i could have made a good collection of cuckoos' eggs in the channel islands, and, knowing how common the bird was, i fully expected to do so, but i was disappointed, and consequently unable to throw any light on the subject of the variation in the colour of cuckoos' eggs, as far as the channel islands are concerned, or how far the foster-parents had been selected with a view to their eggs being similar in colour to those of the cuckoo about to be palmed off upon them. the only cuckoos' eggs i saw were a few in the museum, and in one or two other small collections: all these were very much the same, and what appears to me the usual type of cuckoo's egg, a dull greyish ground much spotted with brown, and a few small black marks much like many eggs of the tree or meadow pipit. it is hardly the place here to discuss the question how far cuckoos select the nest of the birds whose eggs are similar to their own, to deposit their eggs in, or whether a cuckoo hatched and reared by one foster-parent would be likely to select the nest of the same species to deposit its own eggs in; the whole matter has been very fully discussed in several publications, both english and german; and mr. dresser has given a very full _resumé_ of the various arguments in his 'birds of europe'; and whilst fully admitting the great variation in the colour of the cuckoos' eggs, he does not seem to think that any particular care is taken by the parent cuckoo to select foster-parents whose eggs are similar in colour to its own; and the instances cited seem to bear out this opinion, with which, as far as my small experience goes, i quite agree. whilst on the subject of cuckoos i may mention, for the information of such of my guernsey readers who are not ornithologists, and therefore not well acquainted with the fact, the peculiar state of plumage in which the female cuckoo occasionally returns northward in her second summer; i mean the dull reddish plumage barred with brown, extremely like that of the female kestrel: in this plumage she occasionally returns in her second year and breeds; but when this is changed for the more general plumage i am unable to state for certain, but probably after the second autumnal moult. the changes of plumage in the cuckoo, however, appear to be rather irregular, as i have one killed in june nearly in the normal plumage, but with many of the old feathers left, which have a very kestrel-like appearance, being redder than the ordinary plumage of the young bird; some of the tail-feathers, however, have more the appearance of the ordinary tail-feathers of the young cuckoo soon after the tail has reached its full growth: the moult in this bird must have been very irregular, as it was not completed in june, when, as a rule, it would have been in full plumage, unless, as may possibly be the case, this bird was the produce of a second laying during the southern migration, and consequently, instead of a year, be only about six months old. this, however, is not a very common state of plumage; but it is by no means uncommon to find a cuckoo in may or june with a good deal of rusty reddish barred with brown, forming a sort of collar on the breast. i merely mention these rather abnormal changes of plumage, as they may be interesting to any of my guernsey readers into whose hands a cuckoo may fall in a state of change and prove a puzzle as to its identity. the cuckoo departs from the channel islands much about the same time that it does from england on its southern migration in august or september. occasionally, however, this southern migration during the winter seems to be doubted, as a clerical friend of mine once told me that a brother clergyman, a well educated and even a learned man, told him, when talking about cuckoos and what became of them in winter, that "it was a mistake to suppose they migrated, but that they all turned into sparrow-hawks in the winter." as my friend said, could any one believe this of a well-educated man in the nineteenth century? the cuckoo is mentioned in professor ansted's list, but only marked as occurring in guernsey and sark. there are three specimens, one adult and two young, in the museum, as well as some very ordinary eggs. 85. kingfisher. _alcedo ispida_, linnaeus. french, "martin pecheur."--the kingfisher is by no means uncommon, is generally spread over the islands, and is resident and breeds at all events in guernsey, if not in the other islands also. it is generally to be seen amongst the wild rocks which surround l'ancresse common, where it feeds on the small fish left in the clear pools formed amongst the rocks by the receding tide; it is also by no means uncommon amongst the more sheltered bays in the high rocky part of the island; it is also to be found about the small ponds in various gardens. about those in candie garden i have frequently seen kingfishers, and they breed about the large ponds in the vale in mr. de putron's grounds; they also occasionally visit the wild rocky islets to the northward of herm, even as far as the amfrocques, the farthest out of the lot. as well as about the vale ponds, the kingfisher breeds in holes in the rocks all round the island. i have not myself seen it in alderney, but captain hubbach writes me word he saw one there about christmas, 1862. i think its numbers are slightly increased in the autumn by migrants, as i have certainly seen more specimens in mr. couch's shop at that time of year than at any other; this may perhaps, however, be accounted for, at all events partially, by its being protected by the sea bird act during the summer and in early autumn, where the 'martin pêcheur' appears as one of the "oiseaux de mer." it is included in professor ansted's list, and only marked as occurring in guernsey and sark. there are three specimens now in the museum. 86. nightjar. _caprimulgus enropaeus_, linnaeus. french, "engoulevent ordinaire."--the nightjar is a regular autumnal visitant, a few perhaps arriving in the spring and remaining to breed, but by far the greater number only making their appearance on their southward migration in the autumn. the nightjar occasionally remains very late in the islands, as miss carey records one in the 'zoologist' for 1872 as occurring on the 16th of october; and i have one killed as late as the 12th of november: this bird had its stomach crammed with black beetles, not our common domestic nuisances, but small winged black beetles: these dates are later than the nightjar usually remains in england, though yarrell notices one in devon as late as the 6th of november, and one in cornwall on the 27th of november. colonel irby, on the faith of fabier, says the nightjars cross the straits of gibraltar on their southward journey from september to november; so these late stayers in cornwall and guernsey have not much time to complete their journey if they intend going as far south as the coast of africa; perhaps, however the guernsey ones have no such intention, as mr. gallienne, in his remarks published with professor ansted's list, says "the nightjar breeds here, and i have obtained it summer and winter." mr. macculloch tells me the goatsucker is looked upon by the guernsey people as a bird of ill-omen and a companion of witches in their aërial rambles. the bird-stuffer in alderney had some wings of nightjars nailed up behind his door which had been shot in that island by himself. professor ansted includes the nightjar in his list, but only marks it as occurring in guernsey and sark. there are two specimens, a male and female, in the museum, but no date as to time of their occurrence. 87. swift. _cypselus apus_, linnaeus. french, "martinet de muraille."--the swift is a tolerably numerous summer visitant to all the islands, but i think most numerous in sark, where hundreds of these birds may be seen flying about the coupée, amongst the rocks of which place and little sark they breed in considerable numbers. mr. macculloch and mr. gallienne appear to think the swift rare in guernsey, as mr gallienne says in his remarks on professor ansted's list, "the swift appears here (guernsey) in very small numbers, but is abundant in sark;" and mr. macculloch writes me word, "i consider the swift very rare in guernsey." i certainly cannot quite agree with this, as i have found them by no means uncommon, though certainly rather locally distributed in guernsey. one afternoon this summer (1878) mr. howard saunders and i counted forty within sight at one time about the gull cliff, near the old deserted house now known as victor hugo's house, as he has immortalised it by describing it in his 'travailleurs de la mer.' the swifts use this and two similar houses not very far off for breeding purposes, a good many nesting in them, and others, as in sark, amongst the cliffs. young le cheminant had a few swifts' eggs in his small collection, probably taken from this very house, as the swift is certainly, as mr. macculloch says, rare in other parts of guernsey. in alderney the swift is tolerably common, and a good many pairs were breeding about scott's hotel when i was there this year (1878). probably a good many swifts visit the islands, especially alderney, for a short time on migration, principally in the autumn, as once when i was crossing from weymouth to guernsey, on the 18th of august, i saw a large flock of swifts just starting on their migratory flight; they were plodding steadily on against a stormy southerly breeze, spread out like a line of skirmishers, not very high, but at a good distance apart; there was none of the wild dashing about and screeching which one usually connects with the flight of the swift, but a steady business-like flight; they went a little to the eastward of our course in the steamer, and this would have brought them to land in alderney or cape la hague. professor ansted included the swift in his list, but oddly enough, considering the remark of mr. gallienne above quoted, marks it as only occurring in guernsey. there is no specimen at present in the museum. 88. swallow, _hirundo rustica_, linnaeus. french, "hirondelle de cheminée."--according to métivier's 'dictionary,' "aronde" is the local guernsey-french name of the swallow, which is a common summer visitant to all the islands, and very generally distributed over the whole of them, and not having particular favourite habitations as the martin has. it arrives and departs much about the same time that it does in england, except that i do not remember ever to have seen any laggers quite so late as some of those in england. a few migratory flocks probably rest for a short time in the islands before continuing their journey north or south, as the case may be; the earliest arrivals and the latest laggers belong to such migratory flocks, the regular summer residents probably not arriving quite so soon, and departing a little before those that pay a passing visit; consequently the number of residents does not appear at any time to be materially increased by such wandering flocks. professor ansted includes the swallow in his list, but only marks it as occurring in guernsey and sark. there is no specimen of any of the hirundines in the museum. 89. martin. _chelidon urbica_, linnaeus. french, "hirondelle de fenêtre."--the house martin is much more local than the swallow, but still a numerous summer visitant, like the swallow, arriving and departing about the same time that it does in england. it is spread over all the islands, but confined to certain spots in each; in guernsey the outskirts of the town about candie road, and the rocks in fermain and petit bo bay, seem very favourite nesting-places. in alderney there were a great many nests about scott's hotel and a few more in the town, but i did not see any about the cliffs as at fermain and petit bo in guernsey. professor ansted includes it in his list, but only marks it as occurring in guernsey and sark. 90. sand martin. _cotyle riparia_, linnaeus. french, "hirondelle de rivage."--when i first made out my list of guernsey birds i had omitted the sand martin altogether, as i had never seen it in the islands, but mr. macculloch wrote to me to say, "amongst the swallows you have not noticed the sand martin, which is our earliest visitant in this family and by no means uncommon." in consequence of this note, as soon as i got to the island this year (1878), in june, i went everywhere i could think likely to look for sand martins, but nowhere could i find that the sand martins had taken possession of a breeding-station. knowing from my own experience here that sand martins are fond of digging their nest-holes in the heads of quarries, (i had quite forty nest-holes in my quarry this year, and forty pairs of sand martins inhabiting them), i kept a bright look-out in all the stone-quarries in the vale, and they are very numerous, but i did not see a single sand martin's hole or a single pair of birds anywhere; and it appeared to me that the sandy earth forming the head was not deep enough before reaching the granite to admit of the sand martins making their holes; and they do not appear to me to have fixed upon any other sort of breeding place in the island; neither could mr. macculloch point one out to me; so i suppose we must consider the sand martin as only a spring visitant to this island, not remaining to breed. the same seems to me to be the case in alderney, as captain hubbach writes to tell me he "saw some sand martins about the quarry here (in alderney), for two or three days at the beginning of april, but cannot say whether they remained here to breed or not." i suppose they continued their journey, as i did not see any when there in june; i have not seen any in sark or either of the other small islands. professor ansted includes the sand martin in his list, and marks it as occurring in guernsey and sark. 91. wood pigeon. _columba palumbus_, linnaeus. french, "colombe ramier."--the wood pigeon is resident and breeds in several places in guernsey; but fortunately for the guernsey farmers, who may congratulate themselves on the fact, the wood pigeons do not breed in very great numbers. i may mention the trees in the new ground, candie garden, the vallon and woodlands, as places where wood pigeons occasionally breed. no doubt the number of wood pigeons is occasionally increased by migratory, or rather perhaps wandering, flocks, as mr. couch, in a note to the 'zoologist,' dated october the 21st, 1871, says, "on tuesday a great number of wood pigeons rested and several were shot." mr. macculloch also writes me, "the wood pigeon occasionally arrives in large numbers. a few years ago i heard great complaints of the damage they were doing to the peas;"[15] but luckily for the farmers these wandering flocks do not stay long, or there would be but little peas, beans, or grain left in the islands; and the wood pigeons would be more destructive to the crops in guernsey than in england, as there are not many acorns or beech masts on which they could feed; consequently they would live almost entirely on the farmer; and to show the damage they would be capable of doing in this case, i may say that in the crops of two that i examined some time ago--not killed in guernsey however--i found, in the first, thirty seven beech-masts in the crop, and eight others in the gizzard, sufficiently whole to be counted; and in the crop of the other the astonishing number of seventy-seven beech-masts and one large acorn; the gizzard of this one i did not examine. i only mention this to show the damage a few wood pigeons would do supposing they were restricted almost entirely to agricultural produce for their food, as they would be in guernsey if they lived there in any great numbers. the wood pigeon is mentioned by professor ansted and marked as only occurring in guernsey, and probably as far as breeding is concerned this is right (of course with the exception of jersey); but wandering flocks probably occasionally visit alderney as well. there is no specimen in the museum. 92. rock dove. _columba livia_, linnaeus. french, "colombe biset."--i have never seen the rock dove in any of the islands, though there are many places in all of them that would suit its habits well; and mr. macculloch writes to me to say, "i have heard that in times past the rock pigeon used to breed in large numbers in the caves around sark"; but this certainly is not the case at present. captain hubbach also writes to me from alderney, "there were some rock doves here in the winters of 1862 and 1863; i shot two or three of them then." probably a few yet remain in both alderney and sark, though they certainly are not at all numerous in either island. professor ansted includes the rock dove in his list, and marks it as occurring in guernsey and sark. there is no specimen in the museum. professor ansted also includes the stock dove, _columba aenas_, linnaeus, in his list as occurring in guernsey and sark; but i think he must have done so on insufficient evidence, as i have never seen it and not been able to gain any information about it; neither does mr. gallienne say anything about it in his notes appended to the list; so on the whole i think it better to omit it in my list; but as it may occur at any time, especially as it is certainly increasing considerably in numbers in the west of england, i may mention that it may be immediately distinguished from the rock dove by the absence of the white rump, that part being nearly the same colour as the back in the stock dove, and from the wood pigeon, _columba palumbus_, by its smaller size and the entire absence of white on the wing. it is perhaps more necessary to point out this difference, as the stock dove frequently goes by the name of the wood pigeon; indeed dresser has adopted this name for it, the wood pigeon being called the ring dove, as is very frequently the case. 93. turtle dove. _turtur vulgaris_, eyton. french, "colombe tourterelle."--the turtle dove is a regular, but probably never very numerous summer visitant, arriving and departing about the same time as in england. neither miss carey nor mr. couch ever mention it in their notes on guernsey birds in the 'zoologist': and mr. macculloch, writing to me about the bird, does not go farther than to say "the turtle dove has, i believe, been known to breed here." in june, 1866, however, i shot one in very wild weather, flying across the bay at vazon bay; so wild was the weather with drifting fog and rain that i did not know what i had till i picked it up; in fact, when i shot it i thought it was some wader, flying through the fog towards me. this summer (1878) i saw two at mr. jago's which had been shot at herm in may, just before i came; and in june i saw one or two more about in guernsey. the pair shot in herm would probably have bred in that island if they had been left unmolested. professor ansted mentions it in his list, but only as occurring in guernsey, and there is one specimen in the museum. 94. quail. _coturnix communis_, bonnaterre. french, "caille."--i have never seen the quail in the islands myself, and it cannot be considered more than an occasional straggler; there can be no doubt, however, that it sometimes remains to breed, as there are some eggs in the museum which i have reason to believe are guernsey taken, and mr. macculloch writes me word that "quails certainly visit us occasionally, and i remember having seen their eggs in my youth"; and mrs. jago (late miss cumber), who was herself a bird-stuffer in guernsey a good many years ago, told me she had had two quails through her hands during the time she had been stuffing; but evidently she had not had very many, nor did she think them very common, as she did not know what they were when they were brought to her, and she was some time before she found anyone to tell her. the quail breeds occasionally, too, in alderney, as the bird-stuffer and carpenter had some quail's and landrail's eggs; these he told me he had taken out of the same nest which he supposed belonged originally to the landrail, as there were rather more landrail's than quail's eggs in it. professor ansted includes the quail in his list, but marks it as occurring only in guernsey. there is a specimen in the museum, and, as i said before, several eggs. 95. water rail. _rallus aquations_, linnaeus. french, "râle d'eau."--the water rail is not very common in guernsey, but a few occur about the braye pond, and in other places suited to them; and, i believe, occasionally remain to breed, as mr. jago, the bird-stuffer, told me he had seen a pair of water rails and four young, his dog having started them from a hedge near the rousailleries farm; the young could scarcely fly. i saw one at the bird-stuffer's at alderney, which had been shot in that island; and the bird-stuffer told me they were common, and he believed they bred there, but he had no eggs. their number, however, is, i think, rather increased in the autumn by migrants; at all events, more specimens are brought to the bird-stuffers at that time of year. i have before mentioned the incident of the water rail being killed by the merlin, recorded by mr. couch in the 'zoologist' for 1875. the water rail is included in professor ansted's list, and marked as occurring in guernsey and sark. there are two specimens in the museum. 96. spotted crake. _porzana maruetta_, leach. french, "poule d'eau marouette."--i have some doubt as to the propriety of including the spotted crake in my list, but, on the whole, such evidence as i have been able to collect seems in favour of its being at all events occasionally seen and shot, though its small size and shy skulking habits keep it very much from general notice. mr. macculloch, however, writes to me to say the spotted rail has been found here; and one of mr. de putron's labourers described a rail to me which he had shot in the vale pond in may, 1877, which, from his description, could have been nothing but a spotted rail. this is all the information i have been able to glean, but professor ansted includes it in his list, and marks it as occurring in guernsey. there are also two pretty good specimens in the museum, which i have no doubt were killed in guernsey. 97. landrail. _crex pratensis_, bechstein. french, "râle des prés," "râle de terre" ou "de genet," "poule d'eau de genet."--the landrail is a common summer visitant, breeding certainly in guernsey, sark, and alderney,[16] and probably in herm, though i cannot be quite so sure about the latter island. it seems to be rather more numerous in some years than others, as occasionally i have heard them craking in almost every field. but the last summer i was in the islands (1878) i heard very few. the corn crake arrives and departs much about the same time as in england, and i have never been able to find that any stay on into the winter, or even as late as november. it is included in professor ansted's list, but only marked as occurring in guernsey and sark. there are two specimens in the museum. 98. moorhen. _gallinula chloropus_, linnaeus. french, "poule d'eau ordinaire."--i have not seen the moorhen myself in guernsey, but mr. couch, writing to me in december, 1876, told me that mr. de putron informed him that coots, waterhens, and little grebes bred that year in the braye pond; and mr. de putron, to whom i wrote on the subject, said the information i had received was perfectly correct. i see no reason to doubt the fact of the moorhen occasionally breeding in mr. de putron's pond, and perhaps in other places in the island, especially the grand mare. but i do not believe they breed regularly in either place; they certainly did not in this last summer (1878), or i must have seen or heard them. as far as mr. de putron's pond is concerned, i could not have helped hearing their loud call or alarm note had only one pair been breeding there; i have, however, a young bird of the year, killed in guernsey in november, 1878. professor ansted includes it in his list, and marks it as only occurring in guernsey. there are two specimens in the museum, probably both guernsey killed. 99. common coot. _fulica atra_, linnaeus. french, "foulque," "foulque macroule."--in spite of mr. de putron's statement that the coot bred in the braye pond in the summer of 1876, i can scarcely look upon it in the light of anything but an occasional and never numerous autumnal visitant; and its breeding in the braye pond that year must have been quite exceptional. in the autumn it occurs both in the braye pond and on the coast in the more sheltered parts. i have the skin of one killed in the braye pond in november, 1876, which might have been one of those bred there that year. professor ansted includes the coot in his list, but only marks it as occurring in guernsey. there is no specimen in the museum. 100. little bustard. _otis tetrax_, linnaeus. french, "outarde canepetière," "poule de carthage."--the little bustard can only be considered a very rare occasional visitant to the channel islands, and very few instances of its occurrence have come under my notice. the first was mentioned to me by mr. macculloch, who wrote me word that a little bustard was killed in guernsey in 1865, but unfortunately he gives no information as to the time of the year. another was shot by a farmer in guernsey early in march, 1866, and was recorded by myself in the 'zoologist' for that year. mr. couch also recorded one in the 'zoologist' for 1875, "as having been shot at the back of st. andrew's (very near the place where one was shot fifteen years ago) on the 20th of november, 1874." this bird is now in the possession of mr. le mottee, at whose house i saw it, and was informed that it had been shot at a place called the eperons, in the parish of st. andrew's, on the date above mentioned. these are all the instances of the occurrence of the little bustard in the channel islands that i have been able to gain any intelligence of, but they are sufficient to show that although by no means a common visitant, it does occasionally occur on both spring and autumn migration. it is not included in professor ansted's list. there is, however, a specimen in the museum, which i was told, when i saw it in 1866, had been killed the previous year, but there is no date of the month, and i should think, from the state of plumage, it was an autumn-killed specimen: it is still in the museum, as i saw it there again this year, 1878. this is probably the bird mentioned by mr. macculloch as killed in 1865, and also very likely the one spoken of by mr. couch, in 1875, as having been killed in st. andrew's fifteen years ago; but there seems to have been some mistake as to mr. couch's date for this one, as, had it been killed so long ago as 1860, it would in all probability have been included in professor ansted's list, and mentioned by mr. gallienne in his remarks on some of the birds included in the list. 101. thick-knee. _oedicnemus scolopax_, s.g. gmelin. french, "oedicneme criard," "poule d'aurigny."[17]--the thick-knee, stone curlew, or norfolk plover, as it is called, though only an occasional visitant, is much more common than the little bustard; indeed, mr. macculloch says that "it is by no means uncommon in winter. the french call it 'poule d'aurigny,' from which one might suppose it was more common in this neighbourhood than elsewhere." miss c.b. carey records one in the 'zoologist' as killed in november, and mr. couch another as having been shot on the 31st december. i have also seen one or two hanging up in the market, and others at mr. couch's, late in november; and one is recorded in the 'guernsey mail and telegraph' as having been shot by mr. de putron, of the catel, on the 3rd january, 1879. from these dates, as well as from mr. macculloch's remark that it is not uncommon in the winter, it would appear that--as in the land's end district in cornwall--the thick-knee reverses the usual time of its visits to the british islands, being a winter instead of a summer visitant; and probably for the same reason, namely, that the latitude of the channel islands, like that of cornwall, is about the same as that of its most northern winter range on the continent. professor ansted includes it in his list, but only marks it as occurring in guernsey. there is one specimen in the museum. 102. peewit. _vanellus vulgaris_, bechstein. french, "vanneau huppé."--the peewit is a common and rather numerous autumn and winter visitant to all the islands, though i have never seen it in such large flocks as in some parts of england, especially in somerset. those that do come to the islands appear to take very good care of themselves, for i have always found them very difficult to get a shot at, and very few make their appearance in the market. though generally a winter visitant, i have seen occasional stragglers in summer. on the 9th july this year (1878), for instance, i saw one fly by me in l'ancresse bay; this was either a young bird, or, if an adult, was not in breeding plumage, as i could clearly see that the throat was white--not black, as in the adult in breeding plumage. a few days afterwards, july 19th, another--or, perhaps, the same--was shot by some quarry-men on the common; this was certainly a young bird of the year, and i had a good opportunity of looking at it. in spite of occasional stragglers of this sort making their appearance in the summer, i have never been able to find that the peewit breeds on any of the islands; but, by the 9th of july, stragglers, both old and young, might easily come from the opposite coast of dorsetshire, where a good many breed, or from the north of france. professor ansted includes the peewit in his list, but only marks it as occurring in guernsey. there is no specimen in the museum at present. 103. grey plover. _squatarola helvetica_, linnaeus. french, "vanneau pluvier."--the grey plover is a regular but by no means numerous visitant to the coast of all the islands during the winter months, but i have never found it in flocks like the golden plover. a few fall victims to the numerous gunners who frequent the shores during the autumn and winter, and consequently it occasionally makes its appearance in the market, where i believe it often passes for a golden plover, especially in the case of young birds on their first arrival in november; but for the sake of the unknowing in such matters, i may say that they need never be deceived, as the grey plover has a hind toe, and also has the axillary plume or the longish feathers under the wing black, while the golden plover has no hind toe and the axillary plume white: a little attention to these distinctions, which hold good at all ages and in all plumages, may occasionally save a certain amount of disappointment at dinner time, as the grey plover is apt to taste muddy and fishy, and is by no means so good as the golden plover. it is included in professor ansted's list, but only marked as occurring in guernsey. there are two specimens in the museum, both in winter plumage. indeed, i do not know that it even remains long enough in the channel islands to assume, even partially, the black-breast of the breeding plumage, as it so often does in england. 104. golden plover. _charadrius pluvialis_, linnaeus. french, "pluvier dore."--a common winter visitant to all the islands, arriving about the end of october or beginning of november, and remaining till the spring, sometimes till they have nearly assumed the black breast of the breeding-season; but i do not know that the golden plover ever breeds in the islands, at all events in the present day. professor ansted includes the golden plover in his list, and marks it as occurring in guernsey and sark. there is one specimen in the museum, probably killed rather late in the spring, as it is assuming the black breast. 105. dotterel. _eudromias morinellus_, linnaeus. french, "pluvier guignard."--the common dotterel is a rare occasional visitant to the channel islands, occurring, however, on both the spring and autumn migration, as mr. macculloch says he has a note of a dotterel killed in may, 1849; he does not say in which of the islands, but probably in guernsey; and i have a skin of one, a fine full-plumaged bird, according to mr. couch, who forwarded me the skin, a female by dissection, killed in herm on the 26th of april, 1877. another skin i have is that of a young bird of the year, killed in the autumn, i should think early in the autumn--august or september; and the rev. a. morrës, who kindly gave me this last one, has also a skin of one killed at the same time; both of these were guernsey killed. the dotterel is included in professor ansted's list, and by him marked as having occurred in guernsey and sark. i should think alderney a more likely place for the bird to have occurred than sark, but i have not been able to gain any information about its occurrence there; neither the carpenter bird-stuffer nor his sporting friend had a skin or any part of the bird. there is no specimen now in the museum. 106. ring dotterel. _ægialitis hiaticula_, linnaeus. french, "grand pluvier à collier," "pluvier à collier."--the ring dotterel is very common in all the islands in places suited to it. some remain throughout the summer, and a few of these, but certainly very few, may breed in the islands; the great majority, however, of those that frequent the coast in the winter are migrants, arriving in the autumn and departing again in the spring. some, however, appear to arrive very early, and cannot have bred very far off, perhaps on the neighbouring coast of france or dorset. i have the following note on the subject in the 'zoologist' for 1866, which gives the time of their arrival pretty correctly. during the first two or three weeks after my arrival--that was on the 21st of june, 1866--i found ring dotterels excessively scarce even on parts of the coast, where, on other visits later in the year, i had found them very numerous. towards the middle of july, however, they began to frequent their usual haunts in small parties of six or seven, most probably the old birds with their young. these parties increased in number to twenty or thirty, and before my departure, on the last day of july, they mustered quite as thickly as i had ever seen them before. on another summer visit to guernsey, from the 3rd to the 19th of june, 1876, i did not see any ring dotterel at all, though at the time kentish plover were common in most of the bays in the low parts of the island. the ring dotterel must therefore have selected some breeding-place separate from the kentish plover, probably not very far off; but i do not believe it breeds at all commonly in the islands. this agrees very much with what i saw of the ring dotterel this year (1878); there were a few in l'ancresse and one or two other bays, but none in grand havre, close to which i was living, and i very much doubt if any of those i saw were breeding. neither colonel l'estrange nor i found any eggs, though we searched hard for them both in '76 and '78; neither did we find any eggs either in herm or alderney. professor ansted includes the ring dotterel in his list, but marks it as only occurring in guernsey. there is a specimen in the museum. 107. kentish plover. _ægialitis cantianus_, latham. french, "pluvier à collier interrompu." i have always looked upon the kentish plover as only a summer visitant to the islands, never having seen it in any of my visits in october and november; but mr. harvie brown mentions ('zoologist' for 1869) seeing some of these birds in january, at herm, feeding with the ring dotterel, but he says they always separated when they rose to fly. if he is not mistaken, which my own experience inclines me to think he was, we must look upon the kentish plover as partially resident in the islands, the greater number, however, departing in the autumn. until this summer (1878) i have been unsuccessful in finding the eggs of the kentish plover, though i have had many hard searches for them; and they are very difficult to find, unless the bird is actually seen to run from the nest, or rather from the eggs, for, as a rule, nest there is none, the eggs being only placed on the sand, with which they get half buried, when they may easily be mistaken for a small bit of speckled granite and passed by. in the summer of 1866, a friend and myself had a long search for the eggs of a pair we saw and were certain had eggs, as they practised all the usual devices to decoy us from them, till my friend, actually thinking one of the birds to be badly wounded, set his dog at it; after this all chance was over: this was in a small sandy bay, called port soif, near the grand rocques barracks. i mention this as i am certain these birds had eggs or young somewhere close to us, and this was the farthest point towards vazon bay from the vale i found them breeding. the sandy shores of grand havre and l'ancresse bay seemed to be their head breeding-quarters in guernsey. though i only found one set of eggs in grand havre, i am sure there were three or four pairs of birds breeding there; the two eggs i found were lying with their thick ends just touching each other and half buried in sand; there was no nest whatever, not even the sand hollowed out; they were in quite a bare place, just, and only just, above the high-water line of seaweed. i should not have found these if it had not been for the tracks of the birds immediately round them. in l'ancresse bay i was not equally fortunate, but there were quite as many pairs of birds breeding there. in herm the shell-beach seems to be their head breeding-quarters, and there mr. howard saunders, colonel l'estrange and myself found several sets of eggs, generally three in number, but in one or two instances four: these were probably hard-sat; in one instance, with four eggs, the eggs were nearly upright in the sand, the small end being buried, and the thick end just showing above the sand. in no instance in which i saw the eggs was there the slightest attempt at a nest; but colonel l'estrange told me that in one instance, in which he had found some eggs a day or two before i got to guernsey, quite the end of may, he found there was a slight attempt at a nest, a few bents of the rough herbage which grew in the sand just above high-water mark having been collected and the nest lined with them. i have not found any eggs in alderney, but i have no doubt they breed in some of the sandy bays to the north of the island occasionally, if not always, as i have seen them there in the breeding-season, both in 1876 and in 1866. this summer (1878) i was so short a time in that island that i had not time to search the most likely places, but captain hubbach wrote me--"i do not think the kentish plover remained here to breed this year, although i saw some about in april." professor ansted includes the kentish plover in his list, but only marks it as occurring in guernsey. there is one specimen, a male, in the museum. 108. turnstone. _strepsilas interpres_, linnaeus. french, "tourne pierre," "tourne pierre a collier." the cosmopolitan turnstone is resident in the channel islands; throughout the year its numbers, however, are much increased in the autumn by migrants, many of which remain throughout the winter, leaving the islands for their breeding-stations in the spring. some of those that remain throughout the summer i have no doubt breed in the islands, as i have seen the old birds about with their young and shot one in july; and on the 8th of june, 1876, i saw a pair in full breeding plumage in l'ancresse bay; i saw them again about the same place on the 16th: these birds were evidently paired, and i believe had eggs or young on a small rocky island about two or three hundred yards from the land, but there was no boat about, and so i could not get over to look for the eggs. col. l'estrange obtained some eggs on one of the rocky islands to the north of herm, which certainly were not tern's eggs as he supposed, and i believe them to have been turnstone's; unluckily he did not take the eggs himself, but the boatman who was with him took them, so he did not see the bird go off the nest. this last summer (1878) i was in hopes of being more successful either in guernsey itself or in herm, or the rocks near there, but i did not see a single turnstone alive the whole time i was in guernsey. i think it very likely, however, i should have been successful in herm, as i visited it several times both by myself and with col. l'estrange and mr. howard saunders; our first visit was on june the 21st, when we did not see a single turnstone; but this was afterwards accounted for, as on a visit to jago, the bird-stuffer, a short time afterwards, i found him skinning a splendid pair of turnstones which had been shot in herm a few days before our visit on the 17th or 18th of june; the female had eggs ready for extrusion; i need not say i did not exactly bless the person who, in defiance of the guernsey sea birds act, had shot this pair of turnstones, as had they been left i have no doubt we should have seen them, and probably found the eggs, and quite settled the question of the turnstone's breeding there. i have long been very sceptical on this subject, but now i have very little doubt, as i think, seeing the birds about, paired, in guernsey in june and the pair shot in herm, the female with eggs in june, pretty well removes any doubt as to the turnstone breeding in the islands, and i do not see why it should not, as it breeds quite as far south in the azores, and almost certainly in the canaries.[18] mr. rodd, however, tells me he does not believe in its breeding in the scilly islands, though it is seen about there throughout the year, as it is in the channel islands. mr. gallienne, in his remarks on professor ansted's list, merely says, "the turnstone is found about the neighbourhood of herm throughout the year." it occurs also in alderney in the autumn, but i have not seen it there in the breeding-season. professor ansted includes it in his list, but only marks it as occurring in guernsey. there are a male and female, in breeding plumage, in the museum, and also one in winter plumage. 109. oystercatcher, _haematopus ostralegus_, linnaeus. french, "hiûtrier pie."--the guernsey bird act includes these birds under the name 'piesmarans,' which is the name given to the oystercatcher by all the french-speaking fishermen and boatmen, and which i suppose must be looked upon only as the local name, though i have no doubt it is the common name also on the neighbouring coast of normandy and brittany. the oystercatcher is resident all the year, and breeds in all the islands; i think, however, its numbers are considerably increased in the autumn by migratory arrivals; certainly the numbers actually breeding in the islands are not sufficient to account for the immense flocks one sees about in october and november. there seem, however, to be considerable numbers remaining in flocks throughout the summer, without apparently the slightest intention of separating for breeding purposes, as i have often counted as many as forty or fifty together in june and july. the oystercatcher breeds in guernsey itself about the cliffs. mr. howard saunders, colonel l'estrange and myself found one very curiously placed nest of the oystercatcher on the ridge of a hog-backed rock at the bottom of the cliff, near the south end of the island; it was not much above high-water mark, and quite within reach of heavy spray when there was any sea on: we could distinctly see the eggs when looking down from the cliffs on them, and the two old birds were walking about the ridge of rock as if dancing on the tight-rope; how they kept their eggs in place on that narrow ridge, exposed as it was to wind and sea, was a marvel. the oystercatcher breeds also in both the small islands, jethou and herm, on almost all the rocky islands to the north of herm, in sark and alderney, and on burhou, near alderney, where i found one clutch of three of the most richly marked oystercatcher's eggs i ever saw: these, as well as another clutch, also of three eggs, were placed on rather curious nests; they were on the smooth rock, but in both cases the birds had collected a number of small stones and made a complete pavement of them, on which they placed their eggs; there was no protection, however, to prevent the eggs from rolling off. both in burhou as well as on the amfroques and other rocks to the north of herm, the eggs of the oystercatchers, as well as of the other sea-birds breeding there, had been ruthlessly robbed by fishermen and others, who occasionally visit these wild rocks and carry off everything in the shape of an egg, without paying any respect to the bird act, which professes to protect the eggs as well as the birds. professor ansted includes the oystercatcher in his list, but only marks it as occurring in guernsey and sark. there is an oystercatcher and also a few of the eggs in the museum. 110. curlew. _numenins arquata_, linnaeus. french, "courlis," "grand courlis cendré."--a good many curlews are to be found in the islands throughout the year, but i do not believe any of them breed there; i have seen them in guernsey, jethou, herm and alderney, all through the summer, but always in flocks on the mud and seaweed below high-water mark, whenever they can be there, searching for food, and quite as wild and wary as in the winter. i have never seen them paired, or in any place the least likely for them to be breeding. i know mr. gallienne, in his remarks to professor ansted's list, says, "although i have never heard of the eggs of either the curlew or whimbrel being found, i am satisfied they breed here (i think at herm), as they stay with us throughout the year." i cannot from my observation agree with this supposition of the curlew breeding in the islands; nor can i agree with the statement made by a writer in 'cassel's magazine' for june or july, 1878, that he found a young curlew in the down on one of the islands near jethou, probably from the description 'la fauconnière.' the writer of this paper in 'cassel's magazine' was evidently no ornithologist, and must, i think, have mistaken a young oystercatcher, of which several pairs were breeding there at the time, for a young curlew; his description of the cry of the old birds as they flew round was much more like that of the oystercatcher than the curlew. all of the boatmen also, with whom i have been about at various times, agree that the curlews do not breed in the islands, though they are quite aware that they remain throughout the year, and as many of them, in spite of the guernsey bird act, are great robbers of the eggs of the gulls, puffins, and oystercatchers, all of which they know well, they would hardly miss such a fine mouthful as the egg of the curlew if it was to be found. no doubt the number of curlews is largely increased in the autumn by migratory visitors, which remain throughout the winter and depart again in the spring: though numerous during autumn and winter, they are very wild and wary, and, as everywhere else where i have had any experience of curlews at that time of year, very difficult to get a shot at; consequently very few find their way into the market. the curlew is mentioned in professor ansted's list, but only marked as occurring in guernsey and sark. there are two specimens in the museum. 111. whimbrel. _numenius phaeopus_, linnaeus. french, "courlis corlieu."--a good many whimbrel visit all the islands during the spring migration, and a few may stay some little time into the summer, as i have seen them as late as june, but, as far as i have been able to make out, none breed there; a few also may make their appearance on the autumn migration, but very few in comparison with those which appear in the spring, and i have never seen any there at that time. purdy, one of the guernsey boatmen, who is pretty well up in the sea and shore birds, told me the whimbrel occurred commonly in may, but not on the autumn migration. he added that it was known there as the "may-bird," and was very good to eat, and much easier to shoot than a curlew, in which he is quite right. professor ansted includes the whimbrel in his list, and marks it only as occurring in guernsey and sark. there are two specimens in the museum. 112. redshank. _totanus calidris_, linnaeus. french, "chevalier gambette."--an occasional but never numerous visitant to all the islands, on both spring and autumn migrations; none appear to remain through the summer. i have, however, a redshank in full breeding plumage, killed in guernsey as late as the 23rd of april. professor ansted includes the redshank in his list, but only marks it as occurring in guernsey. there are two specimens in the museum. 113. green sandpiper. _totanus ochropus_, linnaeus. french, "chevalier cul blanc."--the green sandpiper is an irregular, very scarce (not so numerous indeed as the redshank) visitant on the spring and autumn migration. i have seen what was probably a family party about vazon bay, in guernsey, quite at the end of july, but i do not believe this bird ever breeds in the islands: those i saw were probably the parents and young brood of an early-breeding pair, on their return from some not very distant breeding-ground. such parties seem only to pay the islands a very short visit on their return from their breeding-ground; at least i have never seen a green sandpiper in the islands as late as october or november; it may, however, occasionally occur in the winter, as i have a specimen from torbay killed in december. professor ansted does not include the green sandpiper in his list, though he does the wood sandpiper, giving, however, no locality for it. i have never seen this latter bird in the islands, however; nor have i been able to find that one has ever passed through the hands of any of the local bird-stuffers, and i cannot help thinking a mistake has been made; as both birds may, however, occur, and they are something alike, i may, for the benefit of my guernsey readers, mention that they may immediately be distinguished; the axillary plume or long feathers under the wing, in the green sandpiper, being black narrowly barred with white; and in the wood sandpiper the reverse, white with a few dark bars and markings; the tail also, in the green sandpiper, is much more distinctly and boldy barred with black and white. alive and on the wing they may be immediately distinguished by the pure white rump and tail-coverts of the green sandpiper, which are very conspicuous, especially as the bird rises; the white on the same parts of the wood sandpiper is much marked with brown, and consequently never appears so conspicuously. there is one green sandpiper at present in the museum, which there seems no reason to doubt is guernsey killed. 114. common sandpiper. _totanus hypoleucos_, linnaeus. french, "chevalier guignette."--the common sandpiper, or summer snipe as it is sometimes called, is a spring and autumn visitant, but never a numerous one, sometimes, however, remaining till the summer. one of mr. de putron's men told me he had seen one or two about their pond all this summer (1878), and he believed they bred there; but as to this i am very sceptical; i could see nothing of the bird when i visited the pond in june and july, and i fancy the birds stayed about, as they do sometimes about my own pond here in somerset, till late perhaps in may, and then departed to breed elsewhere. the latest occurrence i know of was one recorded by mr. couch in the 'zoologist' for 1874, as having been killed on the 3rd of october. mr. couch adds that this was the first specimen of the common sandpiper he had had since he had been in the islands. the common sandpiper is included in professor ansted's list, and marked as occurring in guernsey and sark. there is no specimen in the museum. 115. bartailed godwit. _limosa lapponica_, linnaeus. french, "barge rousse."--the bar-tailed godwit is a regular and sometimes rather numerous spring and autumn visitant. in may, 1876, a considerable number of these birds seem to have rested on the little island of herm, where the keeper shot three of them; two of these are now in my possession, and are very interesting, as though all shot at the same time--i believe on the same day--they are in various stages of plumage, the most advanced being in thorough breeding-plumage, and the other not nearly so far advanced; and the third, which i saw but have not got, was not so far advanced as either of the others. in the two which i have the change of colour in the feathers, without moult, may be seen in the most interesting manner, especially in the least advanced, as many of the feathers are still parti-coloured, the colouring matter not having spread over the whole feather; in the most advanced, however, nearly all the feathers were fully coloured with the red of the breeding-plumage. this red plumage remains till the autumn, when it is replaced, after the moult, by the more sombre and less handsome grey of the winter plumage. though the bar-tailed godwit goes far north to breed, not breeding much nearer than lapland and the north of norway and sweden, both old and young soon show themselves again in the channel islands on their return journey, as i shot a young bird of the year in herm the last week in august. most of the autumn arrivals, however, soon pass on to more southern winter quarters, only a few remaining very late, perhaps quite through the winter, as i have one shot in guernsey as late as the 14th of december; this one, i need hardly say, is in full winter plumage, and of course presents a most striking difference to the one shot in herm in may. the bar-tailed godwit is included in professor ansted's list, but only marked as occurring in guernsey. it is, however, as i have shown, perhaps more common in herm, and it also occurs in alderney. there is a series of these in the museum in change and breeding-plumage. the blacktailed godwit is also included in professor ansted's list, but i have never seen the bird in the islands or been able to glean any information concerning it, and there is no specimen in the museum. 116. greenshank. _totanus canescens_, gmelin. french, "chevalier gris," "chevalier aboyeur."--the greenshank can only be considered a rare occasional visitant. i have never shot or seen it myself in the islands, but miss c.b. carey records one in the 'zoologist' for 1872 as having been shot on the 2nd of october of that year, and brought to mr. couch's, at whose shop she saw it. the greenshank is included in professor ansted's list, but there is no letter to note which of the islands it has occurred in. there is no specimen in the museum. 117. ruff. _machetes pugnax,_ linnaeus. french, "combatant," "combatant variable."--the ruff is an occasional but not very common autumn and winter visitant; it occurs, probably, more frequently in the autumn than the winter. mr. macculloch writes me, "i have a note of a ruff shot in october, 1871." this probably was, like all the guernsey specimens i have seen, a young bird of the year in that state of plumage in which it leads to all sorts of mistakes, people wildly supposing it to be either a buff-breasted or a bartram's sandpiper. miss c.b. carey records one in the 'zoologist' for 1871 as shot in september of that year; this was a young bird of the year. miss c.b. carey also records two in the 'zoologist' for 1872 as having been shot about the 13th of april in that year; these she describes as being in change of plumage but having no ruff yet; probably the change of colour in the feathers was beginning before the long feathers of the ruff began to grow; and this agrees with what i have seen of the ruff in confinement; the change of colour in the feathers of the body begins before the ruff makes its appearance. professor ansted includes the ruff in his list, and only marks it as occurring in guernsey. there is no specimen in the museum at present. 118. woodcock. _scolopax rusticola_, linnaeus. french, "becasse ordinaire."--the woodcock is a regular and tolerably common autumnal visitant to all the islands, arriving and departing about the same time as in england,--none, however, remaining to breed, as is so frequently the case with us. there might be some good cock shooting in the islands if the woodcocks were the least preserved, but as soon as one is heard of every person in the island who can beg, borrow, or steal a gun and some powder and shot is out long before daylight, waiting for the first shot at the unfortunate woodcock as soon as there should be sufficient daylight. in fact, such a scramble is there for a chance at a woodcock that a friend of mine told me he got up long before daylight one morning and went to a favourite spot to begin at; thinking to be first on the ground, he sat on a gate close by waiting for daylight; but so far from his being the first, he found, as it got light, three other people, all waiting, like himself, to begin as soon as it was light enough, each thinking he was going to be first and have it all his own way with the cocks. besides the gun, another mode of capturing the woodcocks used till very lately to be, and perhaps still is, practised at woodlands and some other places where practicable in guernsey. nets are set across open paths between the trees, generally ilex, through which the woodcocks take their flight when going out "roading," as it is called--that is, when on their evening excursion for food; into these nets the woodcocks fly and become easy victims. professor ansted includes the woodcock in his list, but only marks it as occurring in guernsey and sark. there is one specimen in the museum. 119. solitary snipe. _scolopax major_, gmelin. french, "grande becassine."--i have never been fortunate enough to shoot a solitary snipe myself in the channel islands, neither have i seen one at any of the bird-stuffers; but that is not very likely, as the shooter of a solitary snipe only congratulates himself on having killed a fine big snipe, and carries it off for dinner, but, from some of the descriptions i have had given me of these fine big snipes, i have no doubt it has occasionally been a solitary snipe. mr. macculloch also writes me word that the solitary snipe occasionally occurs. it is included in professor ansted's list, and marked by him as occurring in guernsey and sark. there is no specimen at present in the museum. 120. snipe. _gallinago gallinaria_, gmelin. french, "bécassine ordinaire."--the common snipe is a regular and rather numerous autumnal visitant to all the islands, remaining through the winter and departing again in the spring, some few remaining rather late into the summer. i am very sceptical myself about the snipe breeding in the channel islands in the present day, although i was told one or two were seen about mr. de putron's pond late this summer, and were supposed to be breeding there; however, i could see nothing of them when there in june and july, although, as i have said before, mr. de putron kindly allowed me to search round his pond for either birds or eggs. mr. macculloch, however, thinks they still breed in guernsey, as he writes to me to say, "i believe that snipes continue to breed here occasionally; i have heard of them, and put them up myself in summer." if they do, i should think the most likely places would be the wild gorse and heath-covered valleys leading down to the gouffre and petit bo bay, as there is plenty of water and soft feeding places in both; i have never seen one there, however, though i have several times walked both those valleys and the intervening land during the breeding-season, and i should think all these places were much too much overrun with picnic parties and excursionists to allow of snipes breeding there now. should the snipe, however, still breed in the island, it would be as well to give it a place in the guernsey bird act, as it is much more worthy of protection during the breeding-season than many of the birds there mentioned. sometimes in the autumn i have seen and shot snipe in the most unlikely places when scrambling along between huge granite boulders lying on a surface of hard granite rock, where it would be perfectly impossible for a snipe to pick up a living; indeed with his sensitive bill i do not believe a snipe, if he found anything eatable, could pick it off the hard ground. probably the snipes i have found in these unlikely places were not there by choice, but because driven from their more favourite places by the continual gunning going on in almost every field inland. the snipe is included in professor ansted's list, but only marked as occurring in guernsey: it is difficult to say why this should be, when the solitary snipe and the jack snipe are marked as occurring in guernsey and sark, and all three are, at least, as common in alderney as in the other two islands. there is one specimen in the museum. 121. jack snipe. _gallinago gallinula_, linnaeus. french, "bécassine jourde."--the jack snipe is a regular autumnal visitant to all the islands, but never so numerous as the common snipe. a few may always be seen, however, hung up in the market with the common snipes through the autumn and winter. professor ansted includes it in his list, and marks it only as occurring in guernsey and sark. there is no specimen at present in the museum. 122. knot. _tringa canutus_, brisson. french, "becasseau canut," "becasseau maubèche."--common as the knot is on the south and west coast of england during autumn and winter, it is by no means so common in the channel islands. i have never shot it there myself in any of my autumnal expeditions. miss c.b. carey records one, however, in the 'zoologist' for 1871, as having been shot on september the 23rd of that year; and mr. harvie brown mentions seeing a solitary knot far out on the shore at herm in january, 1869. these are the only occasions i am certain about, although it probably occurs sparingly every year, but i have never seen it even in the market, and were it at all common a few certainly would have occasionally found their way there. professor ansted includes it in his list, but only marks it as occurring in guernsey. there is no specimen at present in the museum. 123. curlew sandpiper. _tringa subarquata_, güldenstaedt. french, "becasseau cocorli."--the curlew sandpiper, or pigmy curlew as it is sometimes called, can only be considered a rare occasional visitant to the channel islands. i have never seen or shot one there myself, but mr. couch records one in the 'zoologist' for 1874 as having been shot near the richmond barracks on the 5th of october of that year. colonel l'estrange told me also that some were seen in a small bay near grand rocque in the autumn of 1877. it may, however, have occurred at other times and been passed over or looked upon as only a purre, from which bird, however, it may immediately be distinguished by its longer legs and taller form when on the ground, and by the white rump. it is not included in professor ansted's list, and there is no specimen in the museum. 124. purre or dunlin. _tringa alpina_, linnaeus. french, "becasseau brunette," "becasseau variable."--the purre is resident in all the islands throughout the year in considerable numbers, which however are immensely increased in the autumn by migratory arrivals, most of which remain throughout the winter, departing in the spring for their breeding stations. though resident throughout the year, and assuming full breeding plumage, i am very doubtful as to the purre breeding in the islands; i have never been able to find eggs, nor, as a rule, have i found the bird anywhere but on its ordinary winter feeding-ground, amongst the mud and seaweed between high and low water mark. the most likely parts to find them breeding seem to be some of the high land and heather in guernsey and the sandy common on the northern part of herm, near which place i saw a few this summer (1878) in perfect breeding plumage, and showing more signs of being paired than they generally do, and in parts of alderney. professor ansted has not mentioned it in his list. there are two specimens in the museum, both in breeding plumage. 125. little stint. _tringa minuta_, leishler. french, "becasseau echasses," "becasseau minute."--the little stint is only an occasional and never numerous autumnal visitant. i have seen one or two in the flesh at mr. couch's, killed towards the end of october, but i have never seen one alive or shot one myself. it is included in professor ansted's list, and marked as occurring in guernsey only. there is no specimen in the museum. 126. sanderling. _calidris arenaria_, linnaeus. french, "sanderling variable."--the sanderling is a regular and rather early autumn visitant to all the islands, as i have shot one as early as the end of august in cobo bay in guernsey; this is about the time the sanderling makes its first appearance on the opposite side of the channel at torbay. i have not met with it later on in october and november, but no doubt a few remain throughout the winter as they do in torbay, where i have shot sanderlings as late as the 27th of december; a few also probably visit the islands on their return migration in the spring. the two in the museum seem to bear out this, as one is nearly in winter plumage, and the other is assuming the red plumage of the breeding season, and could not have been killed before april or may. the sanderling is included in professor ansted's list, and marked by him as occurring in guernsey and sark. 127. grey phalarope. _phalaropus fulicarius_, linnaeus. french, "phalarope gris," "phalarope roussâtre," "phalarope phatyrhinque."[19]--the grey phalarope is a tolerably regular and occasionally numerous autumnal visitant to all the islands, not, however, arriving before the end of october or beginning of november. at this time of year the greater numbers of birds are in the varied autumnal plumage so common in british-killed specimens, showing partial remains of the summer plumage; but one i have, killed in november, 1875, was in most complete winter plumage, there not being a single dark or margined feather on the bird. this perfect state of winter plumage is by no means common either in british or channel island specimens, so much so that i do not think i have seen one in such perfect winter plumage before. the grey phalarope is included in professor ansted's list, but no letters marking its distribution through the islands are added, perhaps because it was considered to be generally distributed through all of them. there is no specimen at present in the museum. 128. heron. _ardea cinerea_, linnaeus. french, "heron cendré", "heron huppé."--a good many herons may be seen about the islands at all times of the year; those that remain through the summer, though scattered over all the islands, are probably all non-breeding birds. i have seen them fishing along the shore in guernsey, herm, alderney, and the rocky islands north of herm, but i have never seen or heard of an egg being found in either of the islands, nor have i ever seen anything that bore the most remote resemblance to the nest of a heron. mr. macculloch, however, writes to me as follows: "the heron is said to breed occasionally on the amfrocques and others of those small islets north of herm." mr. howard saunders, col. l'estrange, and myself, however, visited all these islets this last breeding season (1878), and though we saw herons about fishing in the shallow pools left by the tide, we could see nothing that would lead us to suppose that herons ever bred there, in fact, though herons have been known to breed on cliffs by the sea; the amfroques and all the other little wild rocky islets are apparently the most unlikely places for herons to breed on. in guernsey itself, however, it is more likely that a few herons formerly bred, and that there was once a small heronry in the vale. as mr. macculloch writes to me, "there is a locality in the parish of st. samson, at the foot of delancy hill, in the vicinity of the marshes near the ivy castle, formerly thickly wooded with old elms, which bears the name of la heronière. it may have been a resort of herons, but i am bound to say the name may have been derived from a family called 'heron,' now extinct." it seems to me also possible that the family derived their name from being the proprietors of the only heronry in guernsey. in the place mentioned by mr. macculloch there are still a great many elm trees quite big enough for herons to build in, supposing they were allowed to do so, which would not be likely at the present time. the number of herons in the channel islands seems to me to be considerably increased in the autumn, probably by wanderers from the heronries on the south coast of devon and dorset; on the dart and the exe, and near poole. the heron is included in professor ansted's list, but only marked as occurring in guernsey. there is no specimen at present in the museum. 129. purple heron. _ardea purpurea_, linnaeus. french, "heron pourpre."--the purple heron is an occasional accidental wanderer to all the islands. mr. macculloch writes me word, "i have notes of that beautiful bird, the purple heron, being killed here (guernsey) in may, 1845, and in 1849; also in alderney on the 8th may, 1867." curiously enough mr. rodd records the capture of one, a female, near the lizard, in cornwall, late in april of the same year.[20] when at alderney this summer (1878) i was told that a heron of some sort, but certainly not a common heron, had been shot in that island about six weeks before my visit on the 27th of june. accordingly i went the next morning to the bird-stuffer, mr. grieve, and there i found the bird and the person who shot it, who told me that it rose from some rather boggy ground at the back of the town--that he shot at it and wounded it, but it flew on towards the sea; and as it was getting rather late he did not find it till next morning, when he found it dead near the place he had marked it down the night before. it was in consequence of going to look up this bird that i found the greenland falcon before mentioned, which had been shot by the same person. these are all the instances i have been able to collect of the occurrence of the purple heron in the channel islands. it is, however, included in professor ansted's list, and marked as occurring in guernsey, probably on the authority of one of the earlier specimens mentioned by mr. macculloch. there is no specimen at present in the museum. 130. squacco heron. _ardeola cornuta_, pallas. french, "heron crabier."--i have in my collection a guernsey-killed specimen of the squacco heron, which mr. couch informed me was shot in that island in the summer of 1867, and from inquiries i have made i have no doubt this information is correct. mr. macculloch also writes to me to say, "a squacco heron was shot in the vale parish on the 14th of may, 1867, no doubt the one couch sent to you." this was duly recorded by me in the 'zoologist' for 1872, and is, i believe, the first recorded instance of its occurrence in the channel islands. it is not mentioned in professor ansted's list, and there is no specimen in the museum. 131. bittern. _botaurus stellaris_, linnaeus. french, "heron grand butor," "le grand butor."--bitterns were probably at one time more common in guernsey than they are at present, drainage and better cultivation having contributed to thin their numbers, as it has done in england; and mr. macculloch tells me that in his youth they were by no means uncommon. of late years, however, they have become much more uncommon, though, as he adds, specimens have been shot within the last three or four years. they seem now, however, to be confined to occasional autumnal and winter visitants. mr. couch says ('zoologist' for 1871):--"on the 30th december, 1874, after a heavy fall of snow, i had a female bittern brought to me to be stuffed, shot in the morning in the marais; and on the 2nd of january following another was shot on the beach near the vale church. i had also part of some of the quill-feathers of a bittern sent to me for identification by mrs. jago, which had been killed in the islands the last week in january, 1879." these are the most recent specimens i have been able to get any account of. the bird-stuffer in alderney (mr. grieve) and his friend told me they had shot bitterns in that island, but did not remember the date. the bittern is included in professor ansted's list, but only marked as occurring in guernsey. there is no specimen in the museum. 132. american bittern. _botaurus lentiginosus_, montagu. french, "heron lentigineux."[21]--this occasional straggler from the new world has once, in its wanderings, reached the channel islands, and was shot in guernsey on the 27th october, 1870, and was duly recorded by me in the 'zoologist' for 1871; it is now in my collection. this is the only occurrence of this bird in the channel islands yet recorded; but as the bird occasionally crosses to this side of the atlantic--several specimens having occurred in the british islands--it may possibly occur in guernsey or some of the channel islands again. it may, therefore, be as well to point out the principal distinctions between this bird and the common bittern last mentioned. between the adult birds there can be no mistake: the longer and looser feathers on the fore part of the neck, which are slightly streaked and freckled with dark brown, may be immediately distinguished from the much shorter and more regularly marked feathers on the neck of the adult american bittern. this distinction, however, is not perfectly clear in young birds; but, at any age or in any state of plumage, the birds may be immediately distinguished by the primary quill-feathers, which in the american bittern are a uniform dark chocolate-brown without any marks whatever, while in the common bittern they are much marked and streaked with pale yellowish brown; this may be always relied on at any age or in any plumage. the american bittern is not mentioned in professor ansted's list, no specimen having been found in the channel islands till after the publication of his list, and of course there is no specimen in the museum. 133. little bittern. _ardetta minuta_, linnaeus. french, "heron blongios."[22]--i only know of one occurrence of the little bittern in the channel islands, and that was towards the end of november, 1876; and mr. couch writes to me as follows on the 3rd of december: "a very good little bittern was caught alive in the vale road; after being shot at and missed by two men, a young man in the road threw his pocket-handkerchief at it and brought it in to me alive." mr. couch also informed me, when he forwarded me the specimen, that it was a male by dissection. it is now in my collection, and is a young bird of the year. i am rather sorry that as mr. couch got it alive he did not forward it to me in that state, as, unless it had been wounded by the two shots, i have no doubt i should have been able to keep it alive and observe its habits and changes of plumage as it advanced towards maturity. the little bittern is included in professor ansted's list, and marked as occurring in guernsey. there is no specimen in the museum. 134. spoonbill. _platalea leucorodia_, linnaeus. french, "spatule blanche."--an occasional but by no means common visitant to the channel islands. i have been able to hear of but very few instances of its occurrence or capture of late years; mr. couch, however, writes me, in a letter dated november, 1873, that a spoonbill was brought to him to stuff. in all probability this is the same bird recorded by mr. broughton in the 'field' for october 25th, 1873, and in the 'zoologist' for january, 1874. this is the only very recent specimen i have been able to trace; but mr. broughton in his note mentions the occurrence of one about twenty years before; and mrs. jago, who, when she was miss cumber, did a good deal of bird-stuffing in guernsey, told me she had stuffed a spoonbill for the museum about twenty years ago. this is probably the other one mentioned by mr. broughton, and he may have seen it in the museum; it is not there, however, now--either having become moth-eaten, and consequently thrown away, or lost when the museum changed its quarters across the market-place. mr. macculloch does not seem to consider the spoonbill such a very rare visitant to the channel islands, as he writes to me, "the spoonbill is not near so rare a visitor as you seem to think; specimens were killed here in 1844, and in previous years, and again in 1849, and in october, 1873.[23] they are seldom solitary, but generally appear in small flocks. i forget whether it was in 1844 or 1849 that flocks were reported to have been seen in various parts of england, even as far west as penzance. i think that in one of these years as many as a dozen were seen here in a flock." mr. rodd, in his 'list of the birds of cornwall,' does not mention either of these years as great years for spoonbills, only saying, "occasionally, and especially of late years, observed in various parts of the county; a flock of several was seen and captured at gwithian; others have been obtained from the neighbourhood of penzance, and also from scilly."[24] the spoonbill is included in professor ansted's list, and marked as occurring in guernsey. there is no specimen at present in the museum, the one stuffed by miss cumber having, as above mentioned, disappeared. 135. white-fronted goose. _anser albifrons_, scopoli. french, "oie rieuse, ou à front blanc."--none of the grey geese seem common in guernsey; neither the greylag, the bean, nor the pink-footed goose have, as far as i am aware, been obtained about the islands, nor have i ever seen any either alive or in the market, where they would be almost sure to be brought had they been shot by any of the fishermen or gunners about the islands. there is one specimen, however, of the white-fronted goose in the museum, which i have reason to believe was killed in or near guernsey; and this is the only specimen of this goose which, as far as i am aware, has been taken in the islands. the white-fronted goose is included in professor ansted's list, and marked as occurring in guernsey. the greylag and the bean goose are also included in the list, the greylag marked as occurring in guernsey and sark, and the bean as only in guernsey; but no information beyond the letter marking the locality is given as to either; and the only specimen in the museum is the white-fronted goose above mentioned, neither of the others being represented there now, nor do i remember ever having seen a specimen of either there. 136. brent goose. _bernicla brenta_, brisson. french, "oie cravant," "bernache cravant."--the brent goose is a regular winter visitant to all the islands, varying, however, in numbers in different years: sometimes it is very numerous, and affords good sport during the winter to the fishermen, who generally take a gun in the boat with them as soon as the close season is over, sometimes before. the flocks generally consist mostly of young birds of the year; the fully adult birds, however, though fewer in number, are in sufficient numbers to make a very fair show. professor ansted includes it in his list, but only marks it as occurring in guernsey and sark; it is, however, quite as common about herm and alderney. there is no specimen at present in the museum. 137. mute swan. _cygnus olor_, linnaeus. french, "cygne tuberculé."--i do not believe this bird has ever visited the channel islands in a thoroughly wild state, though it is pretty widely spread over europe; its range, however, being generally more to the east than the channel islands. mr. couch, however, at page 4939 of the 'zoologist' for 1874, records the occurrence of two mute swans on the 7th of september at the braye pond, where they were shot. he also says that "five others passed over the island the same day; they were flying low, and, judging from their colour, were young birds." as no one in the islands keeps swans, these were most probably a family party that had strayed away from the swannery at abbotsbury, on the opposite coast of dorset, where some three hundred and fifty pairs still breed annually. i have myself seen as many six hundred and thirty birds there, the hens sitting and the old males each resting quietly by the nest, keeping guard over the female and the eggs. the distance from the abbotsbury swannery, which is at the extreme end of the chesil beach, in dorsetshire, to guernsey is nothing great for swans to wander; and they often, both old and young (after the young are able to fly), wander away from their home as far as exmouth on one side and weymouth bay or the needles on the other; and an expedition to guernsey would be little more than to one of these places, and by september the young, which are generally hatched tolerably early in june (i have seen a brood out with their parents on the water as early as the 27th of may), would be perfectly able to wander, either by themselves or with their parents, as far as the channel islands, and, as at this time they rove about outside the chesil beach a good deal, going sometimes a long way out to sea, there is no reason they should not do so. it seems a great pity that these fine birds should be shot when they wander across channel to guernsey, especially when it must be apparent to every one that they are really private property. if the present long close season is to be continued, the mute swan might well be added to the somewhat unreasonable list of birds in the guernsey sea-birds act; at all events, swans would be better worth preserving than plongeons or cormorants. 138. hooper. _cygnus musicus_, bechstein. french, "cygne sauvage."--the wild swan or hooper[25] is an occasional visitor to the channel islands in hard winters, sometimes probably in considerable numbers, as mrs. jago (late miss cumber) told me she had had several to stuff in a very hard winter about thirty years ago; some of these were young birds, as she told me some were not so white as others. mr. macculloch also says that the hooper visits the channel islands in severe winters; and the capture of one is recorded by a correspondent of the 'guernsey mail and telegraph' for 4th january, 1879, as having been shot in that island a few days before; it is said to have been a young bird, grey in colour. the writer of the notice, while distinguishing this bird from the mute swan, does not, however, make it so clear whether it was really the present species or bewick's swan; from the measurement of the full length (5 ft. 3 in.) given, however, it would appear that it was the present species, as that would be full length for it, while bewick's swan would be about one-third less; some description of the bill, however, would have been more satisfactory. it would certainly have been interesting to have had some more particulars about this swan, as this last severe winter (1878 and 1879) has been very productive of swans in the south-west of england, the greater number of those occurring in this county of somerset, however, curiously enough, having been bewick's swan, which is generally considered the rarer species. though swans have been so exceptionally numerous in various parts of england this winter, the above-mentioned is the only occurrence i have heard of in the channel islands. the hooper is included in professor ansted's list, but marked as only occurring in guernsey. there are two specimens in the museum, one adult and one young bird. 139. bewick's swan. _cygnus minor_, keys and blasius. french, "cygne de bewick."[26]--i have very little authority for including bewick's swan in my list of guernsey birds; mr. macculloch, however, writes me word, "the common hooper has visited us in severe winters, and is certainly not the _only_ species of _wild_ swan that has been shot here." in all probability the other must have been bewick's swan, which no doubt has occasionally occurred, perhaps more frequently than is supposed, though not so frequently as the hooper. probably the difference between the two is not sufficiently known; it may, therefore, be as well to point out the distinctions. bewick's swan is much smaller than the hooper, but the great outward distinction is, that in the hooper the yellow at the base of the bill extends to and includes the nostrils, whereas in bewick's swan the yellow occupies a very small portion of the base of the bill, not extending so far as the nostrils: this is always sufficient to distinguish the two, and is almost the only exterior distinction, but on dissection the anatomical structure, especially of the trachea, shows material difference between the two. professor ansted includes bewick's swan in his list, and marks it as occurring in guernsey. there is, however, no specimen at present in the museum. 140. wild duck. _anas boschas_, linnaeus. french, "canard sauvage."---the wild duck is an occasional autumn and winter visitant. i have never shot one myself in the islands, but i have several times seen guernsey-killed ones in the market. though a visitant to all the islands, i do not believe the wild duck breeds, at all events at present, in any of them; mr. macculloch, however, writes me word "the wild duck formerly bred here;" and mr. gallienne, in his 'notes' to professor ansted's list, says--"the wild duck formerly bred in guernsey rather abundantly, but it seldom does so now. last year a nest was found on one of the rocks near herm." this would be about 1861. the rocks to the northward of herm do not seem to me a likely place for the wild duck to breed; however, there are one or two places where they might possibly do so. a much more likely place would be in some of the reed beds in the grande mare, or even amongst the heather and gorse above the high cliffs on the south and east side of the island,--a sort of place they are fond of selecting in this county, somerset, where they frequently nest amongst the heather high up in the hills, and quite away from any water. the wild duck is included in professor ansted's list, and marked as occurring in guernsey and sark. there is no specimen at present in the museum. 141. pintail. _dafila acuta_, linnaeus. french, "pilet," "canard pilet." the pintail is an occasional autumn and winter visitant, but never very common. i have one specimen, a female, killed in guernsey in november, 1871, and this mr. couch told me was the only one he had had through his hands whilst in guernsey; and captain hubbach writes me word that he shot one in alderney in january, 1863. i have never seen it in the guernsey market, like the wild duck and teal. professor ansted includes it in his list, but only marks it as occurring in guernsey. there is one specimen, a male in full plumage, in the museum. 142. teal. _querquedula crecca_, linnaeus. french, "sarcelle d'hiver."--like the wild duck, the teal is a regular but never numerous visitant to all the islands. a few make their appearance in the guernsey market in october and november, and occasionally through the winter; but teal do not, as a rule, add much to the guernsey sportsman's bag. in november, 1871, a friend of mine told me that, after a long day's shooting from daylight till dark, he succeeded in bagging one teal and one woodcock. i was rather glad i was not with him on this occasion, but chose the wild shooting on the shore, where i got one or two golden plovers, and turnstone and ring dotterel enough for a pie--and, by-the-bye, a very good pie they made. professor ansted includes the teal in his list, and marks it as occurring in guernsey and sark. there is no specimen in the museum at present. 143. eider duck. _somateria mollissima,_ linnaeus. french, "canard eider," "morillon eider."--the eider duck occasionally straggles to the channel islands in the autumn, but very seldom, and the majority of those that do occur are in immature plumage. i have one immature bird, killed in guernsey in the winter of 1876; and that is the only channel island specimen that has come under my notice, and i think almost the only one mr. couch had had through his hands. the eider duck is included in professor ansted's list, and marked as occurring in guernsey. the king eider is also included in the list, but no letter marking the distribution through the islands is given, and no information beyond the mere name, so i should think in all probability this must have been a mistake, especially as i can find no other evidence whatever of its occurrence. there is no specimen of either bird in the museum. 144. common scoter. _oidemia nigra_, linnaeus. french, "macreuse," "canard macreuse."--the scoter is a common autumn and winter visitant to all the islands, generally making its appearance in considerable flocks; sometimes, however, the flocks get broken up, and single birds may then be seen scattered about in the more sheltered bays. some apparently remain till tolerably late in the spring as mr. macculloch wrote me word that a pair of scoters were killed in the last week in april, 1878, off the esplanade; he continues, "i had only a cursory glance of them as i was passing through the market in a hurry, and i am not sure they were not velvet scoters. the male had a great deal of bright yellow about the nostrils." mr. macculloch, however, told me afterwards, when i asked him more about them, and especially whether he had seen any white about the wing, that he had not seen any white whatever about them, so i have but little doubt that they were common scoters, and he could hardly have failed to be struck by the conspicuous white bar on the wing, by which the velvet scoter, both male and female, may immediately be distinguished from the common scoter. as on the south coast of devon or dorset, a few scattered scoters--non-breeding birds, of course--remain throughout the summer. i have one, a male, killed off guernsey on july 19th: this bird is in that peculiar state of plumage which all the males of the _anatidae_ put on from about july to october, and in which many of them look so like the females. the common scoter is included in professor ansted's list, and marked only as occurring in guernsey. the velvet scoter is also included in professor ansted's list, and marked as occurring in guernsey; but there seems to be no other evidence of its having occurred in the islands; and a mistake may easily have been made, however, as the velvet scoter occurs tolerably frequently on the south coast of devon, though never in such numbers as the common scoter; it may, of course, occur in the channel islands occasionally. there is no specimen of either bird in the museum. 145. goosander. _mergus merganser_, linnaeus. french, "grand harle."--the goosander is a regular and tolerably numerous visitant to all the islands, arriving in the autumn and remaining throughout the winter. the heavy-breaking seas of the channel islands do not appear to disturb the composure of these birds in the least, for once, on my voyage home on the 16th november, 1871, i saw a small flock of goosanders off herm, close to the steamer; they were swimming perfectly unconcerned in a heavy-breaking sea, which made the steamer very lively, dipping first one and then the other paddle-box into the water; as we got close up to them they rose, but only flew a short distance and pitched again in the white water. they seem to me to keep the sea better than the red-breasted merganser--at least, i have not seen them seek shelter so much in the different bays. the goosander is included in professor ansted's list, but only marked as occurring in guernsey. there is no specimen in the museum at present, though i think there used to be one, but i suppose it has got moth-eaten and been thrown away. 146. red-breasted merganser. _mergus serrator,_ linnaeus. french, "harle huppé."--like the goosander, the red-breasted merganser is a regular and by no means uncommon autumn and winter visitant to the channel islands. it seems to me, as i said before, that these birds seek the more sheltered bays during wild squally weather more than the goosanders do; not but what they can keep the sea well even in bad weather, but i have never seen or shot the goosander close to the shore seeking smooth water, as i have done the red-breasted merganser. the greater number of red-breasted mergansers killed in the channel islands which i have seen have been either females or males that had not assumed the full adult plumage--in fact, in that state of plumage in which they are the "dun diver" of bewick; full-plumaged adult males do, however, occur as well as females and young males, or males in a state of change. professor ansted includes the red-breasted merganser in his list, but only marks it as occurring in guernsey. there are two specimens in the museum--a male in full plumage and a female or young male. 147. smew. _mergus albellus_, linnaeus. french, "harle piette," "harle étoilé," "petit harle huppé."--the smew can only be considered an occasional accidental autumnal visitant, and the few that do occur are generally either females, young males, or males still in a state of change. i do not know of any instance in which a full-plumaged male has occurred in the channel islands. it is mentioned in professor ansted's list, and marked as occurring in guernsey only. there are two specimens in the museum, both females or immature males, or, at all events, males which have not begun to assume their proper plumage after the summer change. 148. little grebe. _podiceps minor_, gmelin. french, "grèbe castagneux."--the little grebe, or dabchick, occurs occasionally in the islands, mostly as an autumnal or winter visitant. i have occasionally seen freshly-killed ones hanging up in the market in november; i have, however, never seen it alive or shot it in the islands. mr. couch, writing to me in december, 1876, told me that mr. de putron had told him that little grebes had bred in his pond in the vale the summer before, and mr. de putron afterwards confirmed this; they can only breed there occasionally, however, as there were certainly none breeding there in 1878, when i was there. the little grebe is included in professor ansted's list, and marked by him as occurring in guernsey only. there are two specimens in the museum and some eggs, which were said to be guernsey, and probably were so, perhaps from the vale pond. 149. eared grebe. _podiceps nigricollis_, sundeval. french, "grèbe oreillard."--the eared grebe is an occasional autumnal visitant to the islands, remaining on till the winter; it is never very numerous; in some years, however, it appears to visit the islands in greater numbers than in others, as mr. couch mentions, at p. 4380 of the 'zoologist' for 1875, that, amongst other grebes, four eared grebes were brought to him between the 4th and 13th of january. i do not know, however, that it ever occurs at any time of year except the winter and autumn; and i have never seen a channel island specimen in breeding plumage, or even in a state of change. the eared grebe is included in professor ansted's list, but only marked as occurring in guernsey. there is now no specimen in the museum. 150. scalavonian grebe. _podiceps auritus,_ linnaeus. french, "grèbe cornu ou esclavon."--the sclavonian grebe is a regular and rather numerous autumn and winter visitor to all the islands. in rough weather it may be seen fishing about the harbour at guernsey when it can find any protection from the rough seas that so often rage all round the island, and which drive it to seek shelter either about the harbour or some of the more protected bays. i do not know that it has ever bred in the islands, but there was a very fine specimen in full breeding-plumage at the late mr. mellish's, which i often saw there; and, on subsequent inquiry from his son, mr. william mellish, he wrote in 1878 to me to say, "the sclavonian grebe was killed by my brother alfred at arnold's pond, just the other side of the vale church to the one on which you were." this arnold's pond is the one i have so often mentioned before as mr. de putron's. i have not been able to ascertain the exact date at which this bird was killed, but it must have been some time in the spring, as it was in full breeding-plumage. there is also one in full breeding-plumage in the museum, so it must occasionally stay on some time into the spring. the young birds and adults in winter plumage, when it is the dusky grebe of bewick, are very much like the eared grebe in the same state of plumage; but they may always be distinguished, the sclavonian grebe always being rather the larger and having the bill straighter, and making a more regular cone than that of the eared grebe, which is slightly turned up. in the full breeding-plumage there can be no possibility of confounding the two species. the sclavonian grebe is included in professor ansted's list, but only marked as occurring in guernsey. there are two specimens in the museum, one in full breeding-plumage and one in winter plumage. 151. red-necked grebe. _podiceps griseigena,_ boddaert. french, "grèbe jou-gris."--i have never seen a channel island specimen of the red-necked grebe in full breeding-plumage as i have the sclavonian, but it is a tolerably regular autumn and winter visitant, and in some years appears to be the more numerous of the two. certainly in november, 1875, this was the case, and the red-necked grebe was commoner than either the great-crested or the sclavonian grebe, especially about the guernsey coast between st. peter's port and st. samson's, where i saw several; and a good many were also brought into mr. couch's about the same time more than usual. one which i obtained had slight traces of the red about the throat remaining, otherwise this one was like the others which i saw in complete winter plumage. the red-necked grebe is included in professor ansted's list, but only marked as occurring in guernsey. there is one specimen in the museum. 152. great-crested grebe. _podiceps cristatus_, linnaeus. french. "grèbe huppé."--the great-crested grebe is a regular autumn and winter visitant to the channel islands, but not, i think, in quite such numbers as at teignmouth and exmouth and along the south coast of devon. i have not shot this bird in the channel islands myself, nor have i seen it alive: but i have seen several guernsey-killed specimens. these were all young birds or adults in winter plumage; and i have one, a young bird of the year, killed in the guernsey harbour late in november, 1876. it is included in professor ansted's list, but only marked as occurring in guernsey. there is one specimen, a young bird of the year, in the museum. 153. great northern diver. _colymbus glacialis_, linnaeus. french, "plongeon imbrim."--the great northern diver is a common autumn and winter visitant to all the islands, arriving early in november, perhaps even about the last week in october. the earliest date at which i have seen it myself was on the 9th november. a considerable majority of these autumnal visitants are young birds of the year, the rest being adults in winter plumage; but, as is the case on the south coast of devon, a few occasionally remain so late on in the spring as to have fully attained the breeding-plumage. there is one guernsey-killed specimen in perfect, or nearly perfect, breeding-plumage in the museum, which i think was killed some time in may by mr. peter le newry, a well-known fisherman and gunner living in guernsey, who procured a good many specimens for that establishment, but, unluckily, no note as to date or locality has been preserved; he told me he had killed this bird late in the spring, but could not when i saw him remember the exact date. it must not be supposed that because this bird occasionally remains in the islands late into the spring, and assumes its full breeding-plumage before leaving, that it ever remains to breed or avails itself of the protection so kindly afforded to it and its congeners, as well as their eggs, by the guernsey bird act. the great northern diver is included in professor ansted's list, but only marked as occurring in guernsey. there are four specimens in the museum in full breeding plumage and change. 154. black-throated diver. _colymbus arcticus_, linnaeus. french, "plongeon à gorge noir."--the black-throated diver is a much less common visitor to the islands than either the great northern or red-throated diver; it does, however, occasionally occur in the autumn and winter; all the specimens that have been obtained are either immature or in winter plumage, and i do not know of a single instance in which it has been procured in full plumage as the great northern has. in the 'zoologist' for 1875 mr. couch records the occurrence of a black-throated diver on the 19th of january of that year, and of another on the 30th of the same month; these are the most recent occurrences of which i am aware. no doubt the young black-throated diver may be occasionally mistaken for and passed over as the young northern diver; but it may always be known by its much smaller size, being intermediate between that bird and the red-throated diver, from which, however, it may always be distinguished by wanting the white spots on the back and wing-coverts which are always present in the winter plumage of the adult red-throated diver, and the oval marks on the margins of the feathers of the same parts in the young birds of the year. the black-throated diver is included in professor ansted's list, and marked as only occurring in guernsey. there is one specimen, an immature bird, in the museum. 155. red-throated diver. _colymbus septentrionalis_, linnaeus. french, "plongeon à gorge rouge," "plongeon cat-marin."--the red-throated diver is a regular autumn and winter visitant to the islands, and rather the most common of the three divers. as with the northern diver, it occasionally remains until it has nearly assumed its full breeding-plumage, but it does not occur so frequently in that plumage as it does on the south coast of devon and dorset; indeed i have never found either this bird or the great northern diver so common in the channel islands as they are about exmouth and teignmouth, even in the ordinary winter plumage; probably the mouths of rivers were more attractive to them as producing more food than the wild open seas of the channel islands. owing to its various changes of plumage, from age or time of year, the red-throated diver has been made to do duty as more than one species, and is the speckled diver of pennant, montagu and bewick. it is mentioned in professor ansted's list, but marked as only occurring in guernsey. there is no specimen at present in the museum. 156. guillemot. _alca troile_, linnaeus. french, "guillemot à capuchon," "guillemot troile."--the guillemot is very common about the channel islands in autumn and winter, but is seldom seen during the summer season except near its breeding stations, which, as far as my district is concerned, are very few. it does not breed in guernsey, sark, or herm, or even on the rocky islands to the north of herm. in alderney, i am told, it has one small station on the mainland on the side nearest the french coast. i was told of this by the person who shot the greenland falcon, and by one or two of the fishermen on my last visit to that island. i had not time then to visit the place, and on former visits i must quite have overlooked it. captain hubbach, however, kindly promised that he would visit the spot, and soon after i left, about the middle of june, 1878, he did so, and his account to me was as follows:--"i have been twice along the cliffs with my glass, but have not seen either a guillemot or razorbill. an old boatman here tells me that he took their eggs off the rocks at the french side of alderney last year (1877), and that they bred there every year. he describes the eggs as 'the same blue and green and white ones with black spots that are on the ortack rock.'" this very much confirms what mr. gallienne says, in his notes to professor ansted's list--"the razorbill and guillemot breed on the ortack rock and on the cliffs at alderney." this ortack rock is to the west of alderney, between burhou and the caskets, and a considerable number of guillemots and razorbills breed there, but it is not to be compared as a breeding station for these birds with those at lundy island and south wales. during the summer a few guillemots, probably non-breeding birds, may be seen at sea round guernsey, and one or two stragglers may generally be seen when crossing from guernsey to sark or herm. i have never seen the variety called the ringed guillemot, _alca lacrymans_, in the channel islands, but, as it may occasionally occur, it is as well to mention it, although it is now rightly considered only a variety of the common guillemot, from which it differs only in summer plumage, when it has a white ring round the eye, and a white streak passing backwards from the eye down the side of the neck: this distinction is not apparent in the winter plumage, nor is there any distinction between the eggs. the guillemot is included in professor ansted's list, but is only marked as occurring in guernsey and sark. there are two specimens in summer plumage in the museum, and one in winter plumage. 157. little auk. _mergulus alle_, linnaeus. french, "guillemot nain."--the little auk can only be considered a rare occasional wanderer to the channel islands, generally driven before the heavy autumnal and winter gales. i only know of the occurrence of two specimens: one of these was recorded by mr. couch in the 'zoologist' for 1875, as having been killed on the 30th january in that year; and i had a letter from mr. couch, dated the 20th december, 1872, in which he informed me that a little auk had been taken alive in guernsey on the 17th of that month: this one had probably, as is often the case, been driven ashore during a gale, and, being too exhausted to rise, had been taken by hand. the little auk is included in professor ansted's list, and marked as occurring in guernsey and sark. there is no specimen at present in the museum. 158. puffin. _fratercula arctica_, linnaeus. french, "macareux."--the puffin, or barbelote[27] as it is called by the guernsey sailors and in the guernsey bird act, is a regular and numerous summer visitant to the islands, breeding in considerable numbers in many places. none breed, however, in guernsey itself, or in any of the little rocky islands immediately surrounding it. some breed on sark and the islands about it, and a few also on herm; but their great breeding quarters about these parts are from the amfrocques to the north end of herm. on every one of the little rocky islands between these places, and including the amfrocques, considerable numbers of puffins breed, either in holes in the soft soil which has accumulated on some of these islands, or amongst the loose rocks and stones; these latter, however, are the safest places for the puffin, as, in spite of the guernsey bird act, which protects the eggs as well as the birds, the guernsey fishermen are fond of visiting these islands whenever they can for the purpose of what they call "barbeloting;" and they soon lift up the loose earth with their hands and get at the eggs; but the puffins, who have laid in holes in the rocks and amongst loose stones, are much better off, as a good big stone of two or three tons is not so easily moved. i visited all these little islands in the summer of 1878 with mr. howard saunders, and we found all the puffins who had had eggs in holes in the earth had been robbed almost without an exception; the others, however, were pretty safe. besides these islands the puffins breed in alderney itself, and on burhou, where, however, their eggs are robbed nearly as much as in the islands north of herm, especially the eggs of those who choose holes in the soft earth. the puffins do not seem to be very regular in their time of nesting; at least, when i was at burhou on the 14th of june, 1876, i found quite fresh eggs, eggs just ready to hatch, young birds in the down, and young birds just beginning to get a few feathers and almost able to take to the water; it was fun to see one of these when he had been unearthed waddle off to the nearest hole as fast as his legs could carry him--generally, however, coming down every second or third step. the reason for the irregularity in hatching was probably owing to the first brood having been lost, the eggs probably having been robbed. during the breeding season the puffins keep very close to their breeding-stations, and do not apparently wander more than a few hundred yards from them even in search of food; so that, unless you actually visit the islands on which they breed, you can form no idea of the number of puffins actually breeding in the channel islands. the number of puffins, however, at burhou seem to me to have considerably diminished of late years, for in the summer of 1866, when going through the swinge, we passed a great flock of these birds; "in fact, for more than a mile both air and water were swarming with them."[28] this certainly was not the case in either 1876 or 1878, though there were still a great many puffins there; probably the continued egg-stealing has had some effect in reducing their numbers. after the breeding-season the puffins seem to leave the channel islands for the winter, as they do at lundy island and in the british channel; they may return occasionally, as they do in the bristol channel, for a short time in foggy weather; but i have never seen a puffin in any of my passages in october and november, or in any boating expedition at that time of year, and i have never heard any of the boatmen talk about barbelotes being seen about in the winter. an unsigned paper, however, in the 'star' for april 27th, 1878, mentions puffins amongst other winter birds; but i very much doubt their making their appearance in the winter except as accidental visitants; there is one specimen, however, in the museum, which, judging by the bill, must have been killed in the winter, or, at all events, to quote dr. bureau, "après la saison des amours." dr. bureau, in a very interesting paper[29] on this curious change, or rather moult, which takes place in the bill of the puffin, and which has been translated into the 'zoologist' for 1878, where a plate showing the changes is given, says that puffins are cast ashore on the coast of brittany during the winter, for he says they leave the coast, as i believe they do that of the channel islands, and the only indication of their continuing there is that dead birds are rolled on the shore after severe gales in the autumn and winter; and "these birds are clad in a plumage different to that worn by those we get in the breeding-season. in the orbital region, for instance, they have a spot, more or less large, of a dusky brown; they have not the red eyelids, nor the horny plates above and below the eye, nor have they the puckered yellow skin at the base of the bill, and, what is still more remarkable, the bill is differently formed; it is neither of the same size, shape, nor colour, and the pieces of which it is composed are not even the same. it is small sliced off (trongué) in front, especially at the lower mandible, wanting the pleat (ourlet) at the base, and flattened laterally on a level with the nostrils, where a solid horny skin of a bright lead-colour is replaced by a short membrane." the whole paper by dr. bureau on this subject is most interesting, but is much too long for me to insert here; the nature, however, of the change which takes place must be so interesting to many of my readers who are familiar with the puffin in its breeding plumage, and who, in spite of the bird act, perhaps occasionally enjoy a day's "barbeloting," that i could not help quoting as much of the paper as would be sufficient to point out the general nature of the change. the puffin is included in professor ansted's list, but marked as occurring only in guernsey and sark. there are two specimens in the museum; one in the ordinary summer plumage, and one apparently in the winter plumage above described; but it is difficult to be quite certain on the subject, as it has been smeared over with bird-stuffer's paint, probably with the view of making it as like the ordinary summer plumage as possible. 159. razorbill. _alca torda_, linnaeus. french, "pingouin macroptere."--the razorbill is not by any means numerous in the channel islands, but a few breed about ortack, and, as has been said before, in alderney, but nowhere else; and they are by no means so numerous as the guillemot. it is resident throughout the year, though perhaps more common in the autumn than at any other time. mr. harvey brown,[30] however, mentions seeing a small flock swim by with the tide, at the north-end of herm, in january. mr. macculloch writes me word he has a note of a razorbill auk shot in guernsey on the 14th february, 1847; this, of course, is only a young razorbill of the previous year, which had not at that time fully developed its bill. the razorbill is included in professor ansted's list, but only marked as occurring in guernsey. there are two razorbills in the museum, one in summer and one in winter plumage. 160. cormorant. _phalacrocorax carbo_, linnaeus. french, "grand cormoran."--the cormorant is by no means common in the islands; i have never seen it about guernsey, though i have seen one or two near herm; i do not know that it breeds anywhere in the islands, except at burhou, and there only one or two pairs breed. i was shown the nesting-place just at the opening of a small sort of cavern; there was, however, only the remains of one egg that had been hatched, and probably the young gone off with its parents. i, however, received an adult bird and a young bird of the year, shot in the harbour at alderney in august of that year, and those are the only channel island specimens of the cormorant that i have seen. professor ansted includes the cormorant in his list, and marks it as occurring only in guernsey and sark. there is no specimen at present in the museum. 161. shag. _phalacrocorax graculus_, linnaeus. french, "cormoran largup."--the shag almost entirely takes the place, as well as usurps the name, of its big brother, as in the islands it is invariably called the cormorant. the local guernsey-french name "cormoran" is applicable probably to either the shag or the cormorant. the shag is the most numerous of the sea birds which frequent the islands, the herring gull not even excepted, every nook and corner of the high cliffs in all the islands being occupied by scores of shags during the breeding-season. they take care, however, to place their nests in tolerably inaccessible places that cannot well be reached without a rope. the principal breeding-places are--in guernsey, about the gull cliffs, and from there to petit bo, and a few, but not so many, on the rocks between there and fermain, wherever they can find a place; none breed on the north or west side of the island; in jethou and herm, and on the rock called la fauconnière, a few also breed, but not so many as in guernsey, and we did not find any breeding on the amfrocques or the other rocks to the north of herm. on sark they breed in great numbers, mostly on the west side nearest to guernsey, and on the isle de marchant or brechou, especially on the grand cliffs on both sides the narrow passage which divides that island from the mainland of sark, and from there to the coupée, and from there round little sark to the creux harbour on the south-east. on the east side, that towards the french coast, there are few or none breeding, the cliffs not being so well suited to them; a great number breed also on alderney, on the high cliffs on the south and east, but none on burhou. the shags appear to breed rather earlier than the herring gulls; when i was in the islands in june, 1876, almost all the shags had hatched, and the young were standing by their parents on the rocks close to their nests. when i visited some of the breeding-places of the shags on the 27th of may, 1878, neither gulls nor shags had hatched, but when i went to the gull cliff on the 20th of june i found nearly all the shags had hatched, though none or very few of the herring gulls had done so; some of the young shags had left the nests and were about on the water; others were nearly ready to leave, and several were little things quite in the down. though it is generally easy to look down upon the shags on their nests, and to get a good view at a short distance of the eggs and the young, it is, as a rule, by no means easy to get at them without a rope; in a few places, however, their nests are more accessible, and a hard climb on the rocks, perhaps with a burning sun making them almost too hot to hold, will bring you within reach of a shag's nest; but i would not advise any one who tries it to put on his "go-to-meeting clothes," as the deposit of guano on the rocks will spoil anything; and only let him smell his hands after his exploit--they do smell so nice! one of the parents generally stands by the young after they are hatched, i suppose to prevent them from wandering about and falling off the rocks, as the positions of some of them seem very critical, there being only just room for the family to stand; the other parent is generally away fishing, only returning at intervals to feed his family and dry his feathers before making a fresh start; sometimes one parent takes a turn to stay by the young, and sometimes the other. the usual number of young appeared to be three, sometimes only one or two; but in these cases it is probable that a young one or two may have waddled off the rock, or got into a crevice from which the parents could not extricate it, accidents which i should think frequently happen; or an egg or two may have been blown from the nest, or egg or young fallen a victim to some marauding herring gull during the absence of the parents. the shag assumes its full breeding-plumage and crest very early; i have one in perfect breeding-plumage, killed in february; and miss c.b. carey mentions in the 'zoologist' having seen one in mr. couch's shop with its full crest in january. i do not quite know at what time the young bird assumes adult plumage, but i have one just changing from the brown plumage of the young to adult plumage. many of the green feathers of the adult are making their appearance amongst the brown ones; this one i shot on the 26th june, 1866, near the harbour goslin, at sark, near a large breeding-station of shags and herring gulls: if it is, as i suppose, a young bird of the year, it would show a very early change to adult plumage, but of course it might have been a young bird of the previous year; but, as a rule, young birds of the previous year are not allowed about the breeding-stations, any more than they are by the herring gulls. the shag is included in professor ansted's list, but curiously enough only marked as occurring in guernsey. there are two adult specimens and one young bird and one young in down in the museum. 162. gannet. _sula bassana_, linnaeus. french, "fou de bassan."--the gannet, or solan goose, as it is sometimes called, is a regular autumn and winter visitant to all the islands, but never so numerous, i think, as on the south coast of devon; birds, however, in all states of plumage, young birds as well as adults, and in the various intermediate or spotted states of plumage, make their appearance. it stays on through the winter, but never remains to breed as it does regularly at lundy island. i have seen both adults and young birds fishing round guernsey, and mrs. jago (late miss cumber) told me she had had several through her hands when she was the bird-stuffer there; she also wrote to me on the 16th march, 1879, to say a fully adult gannet had been shot in fermain bay on the 15th; and mr. grieve, the carpenter and bird-stuffer at alderney, had the legs and wings of an adult bird, shot by him near that island, nailed up behind the door of his shop. i do not think, however, that the strong tides, rough seas, and sunken rocks of the channel islands suit the fishing operations of the gannet as well as the smoother seas of the south coast of devon; not but what the gannet can stand any amount of rough sea; and i have seen it dash after fish into seas that one would have thought must have rolled it over and drowned it, especially as it rose to the surface gulping down its prey. it is included in professor ansted's list, but only marked as occurring in guernsey. there are three specimens, an adult and two young, in the museum. 163. common tern. _sterna fluviatilis_, naumann. french, "hirondelle de mer," "pierre garin." the common tern is a regular but not numerous spring and autumn visitant to the islands, some remaining to breed. i do not know that it breeds anywhere in guernsey itself, but it may do so, for in the vale in the summer of 1878 i saw more than one pair about the two bays, grand havre and l'ancresse, all through the summer; some of them certainly seemed paired, but i never could find where their nests were; some of the others apparently were non-breeding birds, as they did not appear to be paired. these bays and along the coast near st. samson were the only places in guernsey itself that i saw the terns; there were some also about herm, but we could not find any nests there; but mr. howard saunders and myself found a few pairs breeding on one of the rocky islands to the north of herm; when we visited them on the 27th june, 1878, we only found four nests, two with two eggs each and two with only one egg each. probably these were a second laying, the nests having been robbed, as had everything else on these islands; there must have been more than four nests there really, as there were several pairs of birds about, but we could not find any other nests; these four were on the hard rocks, with little or no attempt at a real nest. this was the only one of the small rocky islands on which we found terns breeding, though we searched every one of them that had any land above water at high tide; the others, of course, were useless. i had expected for some time that common terns did breed on some of these rocks, as i have an adult female in full breeding-plumage, which had been shot on the 29th june, 1877, near st. samson's, which is only about three miles from these islands, and which certainly showed signs of having been sitting; and mr. jago, the bird-stuffer, had one in full breeding-plumage, killed at herm early in june, 1878; but several of the sailors about, and some friends of mine who were in the habit of visiting these islands occasionally, seemed very sceptical on the subject; but mr. howard saunders and i quite settled the question by finding the eggs, and we also thoroughly identified the birds. the common tern seemed to be the only species of tern breeding on the rocks; we certainly saw nothing else, and no common terns even, except on the one island on which we found the eggs. the autumnal visitants are mostly young birds of the year, some of them, of course, having been bred on the islands and others merely wanderers from more distant breeding-stations. no young terns appeared to have flown when i left the islands at the end of july; at least, i saw none about, though there were several adults about both grand havre and l'ancresse bay. the same remark applies to herm, where my last visit to the shell-beach was on the 22nd of july, when i saw several adult common terns about, but no young ones with them; all these were probably birds which had been robbed of one or more clutches of eggs. professor ansted includes the common tern in his list, but only marks it as occurring in guernsey. there is one specimen in the museum, a young bird of the year. 164. arctic tern. _sterna macrura_, naumann. french, "hirondelle de mer arctique."[31]--the arctic tern is by no means so common in the islands as the common tern, and is, as far as i can make out, only an occasional autumnal visitant, and then young birds of the year most frequently occur, as i have never seen a guernsey specimen of an adult bird. i do not think it ever visits the islands during the spring migration; i did not see one about the vale in the summer of 1878, nor did mr. howard saunders and myself recognise one when we visited the rocks to the north of herm. it may, however, have occurred more frequently than is supposed, and been mistaken for the common tern, so it may be as well to point out the chief distinctions: these are the short tarsus of the arctic tern, which only measures 0.55 of an inch, whilst that of the common tern measures 0.7 of an inch; and the dark grey next to the shaft on the inner web of the primary quills of the arctic tern, which is much narrower than in those of the common tern. these two distinctions hold good at all ages and in all states of plumage; as to fully adult birds in breeding plumage there are other distinctions, the tail of the arctic tern being much longer in proportion to the wing than in the common tern, and the bill being nearly all red instead of tipped with horn-colour. the arctic tern is not included in professor ansted's list, and there is no specimen at present in the museum. 165. black tern. _hydrochelidon nigra_, linnaeus. french, "guifette noire," "hirondelle de mer épouvantail."[32]--the black tern is by no means a common visitant to the islands, and only makes its appearance in the autumn, and then the generality of those that occur are young birds of the year. i have one specimen of a young bird killed at the vrangue on the 1st october, 1876. it does not seem to occur at all on the spring migration; at least i have never heard of or seen a channel island specimen killed at that time of year. as this is a marsh-breeding tern, it is not at all to be wondered at that it does not, at all events at present, remain to breed in the islands, there being so few places suited to it, though it is possible that before the braye du valle was drained, and large salt marshes were in existence in that part of the island, the black tern may have bred there. i can, however, find no direct evidence of its having done so, and therefore can look upon it as nothing but an occasional autumnal straggler. the black tern is not included in professor ansted's list, and there is no specimen in the museum. these are all the terns i have been able to prove as having occurred in the channel islands, though it seems to me highly probable that others occur--as the sandwich tern, the lesser tern, and the roseate tern (especially if, as i have heard stated, it breeds in small numbers off the coast of brittany). professor ansted includes the lesser tern in his list, but that may have been a mistake, as my skin of a young black tern was sent to me for a lesser tern. 166. kittiwake. _rissa tridactyla_, linnaeus. french, "mouette tridactyle."--the kittiwake is a regular and numerous autumn and winter visitant to all the islands, sometimes remaining till late in the spring, which misled me when i made the statement in the 'zoologist' for 1866 that it did breed in the channel islands; subsequent experience, however, has convinced me that the kittiwake does not breed in any of the islands. captain hubback, however, informed me that a few were breeding on the rocks to the south of alderney in 1878, but when mr. howard saunders and i went with him to the spot on the 25th june, we found no kittiwakes there, all those captain hubback had previously seen having probably departed to their breeding-stations before our visit, and after they had been seen by him some time in may. professor ansted includes the kittiwake in his list, but only marks it as occurring in guernsey and sark. there are two specimens in the museum, an adult bird and a young one in that state of plumage in which it is the tarrock of bewick and some of the older authors. 167. herring gull. _larus argentatus_, gmelin. french, "goeland argenté," "goeland à manteau bleu."--the herring gull is very common, indeed the commonest gull, and is resident in all the islands throughout the year, breeding in nearly all of them in such places as are suited to it. in guernsey it breeds on the high cliffs, from the so-called gull cliff, near pleinmont, to the corbiere, the gouffre, the moye point to petit bo in considerable numbers; from petit bo bay to st. martin's point much more sparingly. in sark it breeds in considerable numbers; on little sark on both sides of the coupée, and on nearly all the west side; that towards guernsey, especially about harbour goslin, a place called the moye de moutton near there, which is a most excellent place for watching the breeding operations of this gull as well as of the shags, as with a moderate climb on the rocks one can easily look into several nests and see what both old and young are about. on the island close to sark, called isle de merchant, or brechou, especially on the steep rocky side nearest to sark; a great many also breed on and about the autelets: in fact, almost all the grandest and wildest scenery in sark has been appropriated by the herring gulls for their breeding-places, who, except for the shags, hold almost undisputed possession of the grandest part of the island. on the east side, or that towards france, few or no herring gulls breed; the cliffs being more sloping, and covered with grass and gorse, and heather, are not at all suited for breeding purposes for the herring gull. a few pairs have lately set up a small breeding-station on the rock before mentioned near jethou, as la fauconnière; a very few also breed on herm on the south part nearest to jethou, but none that we could see on the rocks to the north of herm. a great many breed also in alderney on the south and east sides, but none on the little island of burhou, which has been entirely appropriated by the lesser black-backs; in all these places the herring gulls and shags take almost entire possession of the rocks, the lesser black-backs apparently never mixing with them; indeed, except a chance straggler or two passing by, a lesser black-back is scarcely to be seen at any of these stations. the herring gull and the lesser black-back, though very distinct in their adult plumage, and even before they fully arrive at maturity, as soon as they begin to show the different colour of the mantle, which they do in their second autumn, when a few of either the dark or the pale grey feathers appear amongst the brownish ones of the young bird, are before this change begins very much alike. in the down i think they are almost, if not quite, indistinguishable after that in their first feathers, and up to their first winter they appear to me distinguishable. as far as the primary quills go i do not see much difference; the shafts, perhaps, of the quills of the lesser black-back are darker than those of the herring, but the difference if anything is very slight; but the head and neck and the centres of the feathers of the back of the lesser black-back are darker,--more of a dark smoky brown than those of the herring gull: this difference of colour is even more apparent on the under surface, including the breast, belly, and flanks. the shoulder of the wing and the under wing-coverts of the lesser black-back are much darker, nearly dull sooty black, and much less margined and marked with pale whitey brown than those of the herring gull. the dark bands on the end of the tail-feathers of the lesser black-back are broader and darker than in the herring gull: this seems especially apparent on the two outer tail-feathers on each side; besides this, there is a slight difference in the colour of the legs, those of the lesser black-back showing a slight indication of the yellow of maturity. i have noted these distinctions both from living specimens of both species which i have kept, and noted their various changes from time to time, and from skins of both: unfortunately the two skins of the youngest birds i have are not quite of the same age, one being that of a young herring gull, killed at the needles in august,--the other a young lesser black-back, killed in guernsey in december; but i do not think that this difference of time from august to december, the birds being of the same year, makes much difference in the colour of the feathers; at least this is my experience of live birds: it is not till the next moult that more material distinctions begin to appear; after that there can be no doubt as to the species. two young herring gulls which i have, and which i saw in the flesh at couch's shop just after they had been shot, seem to me worthy of some notice as showing the gradual change of plumage in the herring gull; they were shot on the same day, and appear to me to be one exactly a year older than the other; they were killed in november, when both had clean moulted, and show examples of the second and third moult. no. 1, the oldest, has the back nearly uniform grey, and the rump and upper tail-coverts white, as in the adult. in no. 2, the younger one, the grey feathers on the back were much mixed with the brownish feathers of the young bird, and there are no absolutely white feathers on the rump and tail-coverts, all of them being more or less marked with brown. the tail in no. 2 has the brown on it collected in large and nearly confluent blotches, whilst that of no. 1 is merely freckled with brown. but perhaps the greatest difference is in the primary quills; the first four primaries, however, are much alike, those of no. 1, being a little darker and more distinctly coloured; in both they are nearly of a uniform colour, only being slightly mottled on the inner web towards the base; there is no white tip to either. in no. 1 the fifth primary has a distinct white tip; the sixth also has a decided white tip, and is much whiter towards the base, the difference being quite as perceptible on the outer as on the inner web. the seventh has a small spot of brown towards the tip on the outer web, the rest of the feather being almost uniform pale grey, with a slightly darker shade on the outer web, and white at the tip; the eighth grey, with a broad white tip. in no. 2 the fifth primary has no white tip; the sixth also has no white tip, and not so much white towards the base; the seventh is all brown, slightly mottled towards the base, and only a very slight indication of a white tip; and the eighth is mottled throughout. i think it worth while to mention these two birds, as i have their exact dates, and the difference of a year between them agrees exactly with young birds which i have taken in their first feathers and brought up tame. i may also add, with regard to change of plumage owing to age, that very old birds do not appear to get their heads so much streaked with brown in the winter as younger though still adult birds, as a pair which i caught in sark when only flappers, and brought home in july, 1866, had few or no brown streaks about their heads in the winter of 1877-8, and in the winter of 1878-9 their heads are almost as white as in the breeding-season. these birds had their first brood in 1873, and have bred regularly every year since that time, and certainly have considerably more white on their primary quills than when they first assumed adult plumage and began to breed. probably this increase of white on the primaries as age increases, even after the full-breeding-plumage is assumed, is always the case in the herring gull, and also in both the lesser and greater black-backs, thus distinguishing very old birds from those which, though adult, have only recently assumed the breeding-plumage. i know mr. howard saunders is of this opinion, certainly as far as herring gulls are concerned. besides the live ones, two skins i have, both of adult birds, as far as breeding-plumage only is concerned, are evidently considerably older than the other. no. 1, the youngest of these,--shot in guernsey in august, when just assuming winter plumage, the head being much streaked, even then, with brown, showing that though adult it was not a very old bird,--has the usual white tip on the first primary, below which the whole feather is black on both webs, and below that a white spot on both webs, for an inch; the white, however, much encroached upon on the outer part of the outer web by a margin of black. in no. 2, probably the older bird, the first primary has the white tip and the white spot running into each other, thus making the tip of the feather for nearly two inches white, with only a slight patch of black on the outer web. on the second primary of no. 1 the white tip is present, but no white spot; but on the same feather of no. 2 there is a white spot on the inner web, about an inch from the white tip; this would, probably, in a still older bird, become confluent with the white tip, as in the first primary. i have not, however, a sufficiently old bird to follow out this for certain. in no. 1, the older bird, the pale grey on the lower part of the feathers also extends farther towards the tip, thus encroaching on the black of the primaries from below as well as from above. i think these examples are sufficient to show that the white does encroach on the black of the primaries as the bird grows older, till at last, in very old birds, there would not be much more than a bar of black between the white tip and the rest of the feather; and this is very much the case with the tame ones i caught in sark in 1866, and which are therefore, now in the winter of 1879, twelve and a half years old; but i do not believe that at any age the black wholly disappears from the primaries, leaving them white as in the iceland and glaucous gulls. the herring gull is an extremely voracious bird, eating nearly everything that comes in its way, and rejecting the indigestible parts as hawks do. mr. couch, in the 'zoologist' for 1874, mentions having taken a misseltoe thrush from the throat of one; and i can quite believe it, supposing it found the thrush dead or floating half drowned on the water. i have seen my tame ones catch and kill a nearly full-grown rat, and bolt it whole; and young ducks, i am sorry to say, disappear down their throats in no time, down and all. they are also great robbers of eggs, no sort of egg coming amiss to them; guillemots' eggs, especially, they are very fond of; this may probably account for there being no guillemots breeding in guernsey or sark, and only a very few at alderney; in fact, ortack being the only place in the channel islands in which they do breed in anything like numbers. professor ansted includes the herring gull in his list, but only marks it as occurring in guernsey and sark. there are two, an old and a young bird, in the museum. 168. lesser black-backed gull. _larus fuscus_, linnaeus. french, "goeland à pieds jaunes."--the lesser black-backed gull is common in the islands, remaining throughout the year and breeding in certain places. none of these birds breed in guernsey itself, or on the mainland of sark, and very few, if any, on alderney. a few may be seen, from time to time, wandering about all the islands during the breeding-season; but these are either immature birds or wanderers from their own breeding-stations. about sark a few pairs breed on le tas[33] and one or two other outlying islets; their principal breeding-stations, however, appear to be on the small rocky islands to the north of herm, on all of which, as far out as the amfrocques, we found considerable numbers breeding, or rather attempting to do so; for this summer, 1878, having been generally fine, all these rocks were tolerably easily landed on, and the fishermen had robbed the lesser black-backs to an extent which threatens some day to exterminate them, in spite of the guernsey bird act, which professes to protect the eggs as well as the birds; but a far better protection for these poor black-backs is a roughish summer, when landing on these islands is by no means safe or pleasant, and frequently impossible. on burhou, near alderney, there are also a considerable number of lesser black-backs breeding, though they fare quite as badly from the alderney and french fishermen as those on the amfrocques and other islands north of them do from the guernsey fishermen. on all these islands the nests of the lesser black-backs were placed amongst the bracken, sea stock, thrift, &c, which grew amongst the rocks, and on the shallow soil which had collected in places. when i was at burhou in 1876 i found lesser black-backs breeding all over the island, some of the nests being placed on the low rocks, some amongst the bracken and thrift; so thickly scattered amongst the bracken were the nests, that one had to be very careful in walking for fear of treading on the nests and breaking the eggs. on this island there is an old deserted cottage, sometimes used as a shelter by the lessees of the island, who go over there to shoot a few wretched rabbits which pick up a precarious subsistence by feeding on the scanty herbage; on the roof of this cottage several of the lesser black-backs perched themselves in a row whilst i was looking about at the eggs, and kept up a most dismal screaming at the top of their voices. the eggs, as is generally the case with gulls, varied considerably both in ground colour and marking; some were freckled all over with small spots--dark brown, purple, or black; others had larger markings, principally collected at the larger end; the ground colour was generally blue, green, or dull olive-green. none of the gulls had hatched when i was there on the 14th of june, though some of the eggs were very hard set; and on the 29th of july i received two young birds which had been taken on burhou; these still had down on them when i got them, and were then difficult to tell from young herring gulls. the distinctions i have mentioned in my note of that bird were, however, apparent, and the slight difference in the colour of the legs is perhaps more easily seen in the live birds than in skins which have been kept and faded into "museum colour." it is some time, however, before either bird assumes the proper colour, either of the legs or bill, the change being very gradual. after the autumnal moult of 1878, however, the dark feathers of the mantle almost entirely took the place of the brownish feathers of the young birds; the quills, however, have still (february, 1879) no white tips, and the tail-feathers are still much mottled with brown. one lesser black-back, which i shot near the vale church on the 17th of july, 1866, is perhaps worthy of note as being in transition, and perhaps a rather abnormal state of change considering the time of year at which it was shot; it was in a full state of moult; the new feathers on the head, neck, tail-coverts, and under parts are white; the tail also is white, except four old feathers, two on each side not yet moulted, which are much mottled with brown. the primary quills had not been moulted, and are quite those of the immature bird, with no white tip whatever. all the new feathers of the back and wing-coverts are the dark slate-grey of the adult, but the old worn feathers are the brownish feathers of the young bird; these feathers are much worn and faded, being a paler brown than is usual in young birds. the legs and bill are also quite as much in a state of change as the rest of the bird. before finishing this notice of the lesser black-back i think it is worth while to notice that it selects quite a different sort of breeding-place to the herring gull; the nests are never placed on ledges on the steep precipitous face of the cliffs, but amongst the bracken and the flat rocks, as at burhou, the only rather steep rock i have seen any nests on was at the amfrocques, but there they were on the flattish top of the rock, and not on ledges on the side. professor ansted includes the lesser black-backed gull in his list, but only marks it as occurring in guernsey. there is one specimen in the museum. 169. common gull. _larus canus_, linnaeus. french, "goeland cendré," "mouette a pieds bleus,"[34] "la mouette d'hiver".[35]--the common gull, though by no means uncommon in the channel islands during the winter, never remains to breed there, nor does it do so, i believe, any where in the west of england, certainly not in somerset or devon, as stated by mr. dresser in the 'birds of europe,' _fide_ the rev. m.a. mathew and mr. w.d. crotch, who must have made some mistake as to its breeding in those two counties; in cornwall it is said to breed, by mr. dresser, on the authority of mr. rodd. mr. dresser, however, does not seem to have had his authority direct from either of these gentlemen, and only quotes it from mr. a.g. more. mr. rodd, however, in his 'notes on the birds of cornwall,' published in the 'zoologist' for 1870, only says, "generally distributed in larger or smaller numbers along or near our coasts," which would be equally true of the channel islands, although it does not breed there; however, as mr. rodd is going to publish his interesting notes on the birds of cornwall in a separate form, it is much to be hoped that he will clear that matter up as far as regards that county and the scilly islands. like the herring and lesser black-backed gull, the common gull goes through several changes of plumage before it arrives at maturity; like them it begins with the mottled brownish stage, and gradually assumes the blue-grey mantle of maturity; in the earlier stages the primaries have no white spots at the tips. the legs and bill, which appear to go through more changes than in other gulls, are in an intermediate state bluish grey (which accounts for temminck's name mentioned above) before they assume the pale yellow of maturity: although at this time they have the mantle quite as in the adult, there is a material difference in the pattern of the primary quills, and they do not appear to breed till their bills have become quite yellow and their legs a pale greenish yellow. i cannot quite tell at what age the common gull begins to breed, for, although i have a pair which have laid regularly for the last two years (they have not, however, hatched any young, which perhaps is the fault of the herring gulls, whom i have several times caught sucking their eggs), i do not know what their age was when i first had them as i did the herring gulls from sark and the lesser black-backs from burhou; i can only say when i first had them they had the bills and legs blue; in fact they were in the state in which they are the "mouette à pieds bleus" of temminck. professor ansted includes the common gull in his list, and marks it as occurring in guernsey and sark. there is no specimen in the museum. 170. great black-backed gull. _larus marinus_, linnaeus. french, "goeland à manteau noir."--the great black-backed gull is by no means so numerous in the channel islands as the herring gull and the lesser black-back, and is here as elsewhere a rather solitary and roaming bird. a few, however, remain about the channel islands, and breed in places which suit them, such as ortack, which i have before mentioned, as the breeding-place of the razorbill and guillemot; and we found one nest on one of the rocks to the north of herm, but it had been robbed, as had all the other gulls' nests about there; we saw, however, the old birds about, and mr. howard saunders found one nest on the little island of le tas, close to sark; it was quite on the top of the island, and there were young in it. i have one splendid adult bird, shot near the harbour in guernsey, in march: i should think this is rather an old bird, as, although there are slight indications of winter plumage on the head, the white tips of the primaries are very large, that of the first extending fully two inches and a half, which is considerably more than that of a fully adult bird i have from lundy island. the great black-backed gull is sufficiently common and well known to have a local name in guernsey-french (hublot or ublat), for which see 'métivier's dictionary.' professor ansted includes the great black-backed gull in his list, and marks it as only occurring in guernsey and sark. there are three specimens in the museum--an adult bird, a young one, and a young one in down, with the feathers just beginning to show. in the young bird the head and neck were mottled and much like those of a young herring gull in the same state; the back, thighs, and under parts do not appear so much spotted as in the young herring gull; the feathers on the scapulars and wing-coverts were just beginning to show two shades of brown, as in the more mature state; the same may be said of the primary quills, which were also just beginning to make their appearance; the tail, which was only just beginning to show, was nearly black, margined with white. 171. brown-headed gull. _larus ridibundus_, linnaeus. french, "mouette rieuse."[36] this pretty little gull is a common autumn and winter visitant to all the islands, remaining on to the spring, but never breeding in any of them, though a few young and non-breeding birds may be seen about at all times of the summer, especially about the harbour. being a marsh-breeding gull, and selecting low marshy islands situated for the most part in inland fresh-water lakes and large pieces of water, it is not to be wondered at that it does not breed in the channel islands, where there are no places either suited to its requirements or where it could find a sufficient supply of its customary food during the breeding-season. very soon after they have left their breeding-stations, however, both old and young birds may be seen about the harbours and bays of guernsey and the other islands seeking for food, in which matter they are not very particular, picking up any floating rubbish or nastiness they may find in the harbour. the generality of specimens occurring in the channel islands are in either winter or immature plumage, very few having assumed the dark-coloured head which marks the breeding plumage. this dark colour of the head, which is sometimes assumed as early as the end of february, comes on very rapidly, not being the effect of moult, but of a change of colour in the feathers themselves, the dark colouring-matter gradually spreading over each feather and supplanting the white of the winter plumage; a few new feathers are also grown at this time to replace any that have been accidentally shed--these come in the dark colour. the young birds in their first feathers are nearly brown, but the grey feathers make their appearance amongst the brown ones at an earlier stage than in most other gulls. the primary quills, which are white in the centre with a margin of black, vary also a good deal with age, the black margins growing narrower and the white in places extending through the black margin to the edge, so that in adult birds the black margins are not so complete as in younger examples. professor ansted mentions the laughing gull in his list, by which i presume he means the present species, and marks it as only occurring in guernsey. there is no specimen in the museum. as it is just possible that the mediterranean black-headed gull, _larus melanocephalus_, may occur in the islands,--as it does so in france as far as bordeaux, and has once certainly extended its wanderings as far as the british islands,--it may be worth while to point out the principal distinctions. in the adult bird the head of _l. melanocephalus_ in the breeding-season is black, not brown as in _l. ridibundus_, and the first three primaries are white with the exception of a narrow streak of black on the outer web of the first, and not white with a black margin as in _l. ridibundus_. in younger birds, however, the primaries are a little more alike, but the first primary of _l. melanocephalus_ is black or nearly so; in this state mr. howard saunders has given plates of the first three primaries of _l. melanocephalus_ and _l. ridibundus_, both being from birds of the year shot about march, in his paper on the _larinae_, published in the 'proceedings of the zoological society' for the year 1878. 172. little gull. _larus minutus_, pallas. french, "mouette pygmée."--i have never met with this bird myself in the channel islands, nor have i seen a channel island specimen, but mr. harvie brown, writing to the 'zoologist' from st. peter's port, guernsey, under date january 25th, says, "in the bird-stuffer's shop here i saw a little gull in the flesh, which had been shot a few days ago."[37] mr. harvie brown does not give us any more information on the subject, and does not even say whether the bird was a young bird or an adult in winter plumage; but probably it was a young bird of the year in that sort of young kittiwake or tarrock plumage in which it occasionally occurs on the south coast of devon. professor ansted does not include the little gull in his list, and there is no specimen in the museum. 173. great shearwater. _puffinus major_, faber. french, "puffin majeur."[38]--i think i may fairly include the great shearwater in my list as an occasional wanderer to the islands, as, although i have not a channel island specimen, nor have i seen it near the shore or in any of the bays, i did see a small flock of four or five of these birds in july, 1866, when crossing from guernsey to torquay. we were certainly more than the admiralty three miles from the land; but had scarcely lost sight of guernsey, and were well within sight of the caskets, when we fell in with the shearwaters. they accompanied the steamer for some little way, at times flying close up, and i had an excellent opportunity of watching them both with and without my glass, and have therefore no doubt of the species. there was a heavyish sea at the time, and the shearwaters were generally flying under the lee of the waves, just rising sufficiently to avoid the crest of the wave when it broke. they flew with the greatest possible ease, and seemed as if no sea or gale of wind would hurt them; they never got touched by the breaking sea, but just as it appeared curling over them they rose out of danger and skimmed over the crest; they never whilst i was watching them actually settled on the water, though now and then they dropped their legs just touching the water with their feet. the great shearwater is not mentioned in professor ansted's list, and there is no specimen in the museum. 174. manx shearwater. _puffinus anglorum_, temminck. french, "petrel manks."--the manx shearwater can only be considered as an occasional wanderer to the channel islands, and never by any means so common as it is sometimes on the opposite side of the channel about torbay, especially in the early autumn. i have one guernsey specimen, however, killed near st. samson's on the 28th september, 1876.[39] as far as i can make out the manx shearwater does not breed in any part of the channel islands, but being rather of nocturnal habits at its breeding-stations, and remaining in the holes and under the rocks where its eggs are during the day, it may not have been seen during the breeding-season; but did it breed anywhere in the islands more birds, both old and young, would be seen about in the early autumn when the young first begin to leave their nests; and the barbelotters would occasionally come across eggs and young birds when digging for puffins' eggs. the manx shearwater is not included in professor ansted's list, and there is no specimen in the museum. 175. fulmar petrel. _fulmarus glacialis_, linnaeus. french, "petrel fulmar."--the fulmar petrel, wandering bird as it is, especially during the autumn, at which time of year it has occurred in all the western counties of england, very seldom finds its way to the channel islands, as the only occurrence of which i am aware is one which i picked up dead on the shore in cobo bay on the 14th of november, 1875, after a very heavy gale. in very bad weather, and after long-continued gales, this bird seems to be occasionally driven ashore, either owing to starvation or from getting caught in the crest of a wave when trying to hover close over it, after the manner of a shearwater, as this is the second i have picked up under nearly the same circumstances, the first being in november, 1866, when i found one not quite dead on the shore near dawlish, in south devon. it must be very seldom, however, that the fulmar visits the channel islands, as neither mr. couch nor mrs. jago had ever had one through their hands, and mr. macculloch has never heard of a channel island specimen occurring. it is not included in professor ansted's list, and there is no specimen in the museum. 176. storm petrel. _thalassidroma pelagica_ linnaeus. french, "thalassidrome tempête."--mr. gallienne, in his remarks published with professor ansted's list, says, "the storm petrel breeds in large numbers in burhou, a few on the other rocks near alderney, and occasionally on the rocks near herm; these are the only places where they breed, although seen and occasionally killed in all the islands." i can add to these places mentioned by mr. gallienne the little island, frequently mentioned before, near sark, le tas, where mr. howard saunders found several breeding on the 24th june, 1878. i could not accompany him on this expedition, so he alone has the honour of adding le tas to the breeding-places of the storm petrel in the channel islands, and he very kindly gave me the two eggs which he took on that occasion. when i visited burhou in june, 1876, i was unsuccessful in finding more than part of a broken egg and a wing of a dead bird. but colonel l'estrange, who had been there about a fortnight before, found two addled eggs, but saw no birds. i thought at the time that i had been too late and the birds had departed, but this does not seem to have been the case, as captain hubback wrote to me in july of this year (1878), and said, "do you not think that perhaps you were early on the 14th of june? of the six eggs i took on the 2nd of july this year, two were quite fresh, three hard-sat, and one deserted." i have no doubt he was right, as the wing of the dead bird i found was, no doubt, that of one that had come to grief the year before, and the egg was one which had been sat on and hatched, and might therefore have been one of the previous year; and the same, possibly, might have been the case with col. l'estrange's two addled eggs. it appears, however, to be rather irregular in its breeding habits, nesting from the end of may to july or august. in burhou the storm petrel bred mostly in holes in the soft black mould, which was also partly occupied by puffins and babbits, but occasionally under large stones and rocks. we did not find any breeding on the islands to the north of herm, but they may do so occasionally, in which case their eggs would probably be mostly placed under large rocks and stones, where the puffins find safety from the attacks of the various egg-stealers. at other times of year than the breeding-season, the storm petrel can only be considered an occasional storm-driven visitant to the islands. it is included in professor ansted's list, and marked as occurring in alderney, sark, jethou, and herm. with this bird ends my list of the birds of guernsey and the neighbouring islands. it contains notices of only 176 birds, 21 less than professor ansted's list, which contains 197; but it seems to me very doubtful whether many of these 21 species have occurred in the islands. i can find no other evidence of their having done so than the mere mention of the names in that list, as, except the few mentioned in mr. gallienne's notes, no evidence whatever is given of the when and where of their occurrence; and we are not even told who was responsible for the identification of any of the birds mentioned. i have no doubt, however, that any one resident in the islands for some years, and taking an interest in the ornithology of the district, would be able to add considerably to my list, as miss c.b. carey, had she lived, would no doubt have enabled me to do. i think it very probable, mine having been only flying visits, though extending over several years and at various times of year, i may have omitted some birds, especially amongst the smaller warblers and the pipits, and perhaps amongst the occasional waders. there is one small family--the skuas--entirely unrepresented in my list; i am rather surprised at this as some of them, especially the pomatorhine--or, as it is perhaps better known, the pomerine--skua, _stercorarius pomatorhinus_, and richardson's skua, _stercorarius crepidatus_, are by no means uncommon on the other side of the channel, about torbay, during the autumnal migration; but i have never seen either species in the island, nor have i seen a channel island skin, nor can i find that either the bird-stuffers or the fishermen and the various shooters know anything about them. i have therefore, though i think it by no means; unlikely that both birds occasionally occur, thought it better to omit their names from my list. professor ansted has only mentioned one of the family--the great skua, _stercorarius catarrhactes_,--in his list, which also may occasionally occur, as may buffon's skua, _stercorarius parasiticus_; but neither of these seem to me so likely to occur as the two first-mentioned, not being by any means so common on the english side of the channel. in bringing my labours to a conclusion i must again thank mr. macculloch and others, who have assisted me in my work either by notes or by helping in out-door work. finis. endnotes. [1] _a_ alderney. _e_ guernsey. _i_ jersey. _o_ sark. _u_ jethou and herm.] [2] this was nearly the whole of the vale, including l'ancresse common. [3] fourteen "livres tournois" are about equal to £1. [4] this act is passed annually at the chief pleas after easter. [5] _falco aesalon_, tunstall, h.s. 1771. _falco aesalon_, gmelin, y., 1788. [6] see temminok. [7] see 'birds of spain,' by howard saunders, esq., published in the works of the société zoologique de france, where he says:--"_c. ceruginosus_ et _c. cyaneus_ ont les lisières extérieures des remiges émarginées, jusqu'à et y comprise la cinquième, et cette forme se trouve en presque toutes les _circus_ exotiques. en _c. swainsonii_ (the pallid harrier) et _c. cineraceus_ cette émargination successive se borne a la quatrieme." we have little to do with this distinction, except as between _c. cyaneus_ and _c. cineraceus, c. aeruginosus_ being otherwise sufficiently distinct, and _c. swainsonii_ not coming within our limits. [8] "tereus," i soon found, as i expected, was mr. macculloch. [9] these reeds are the common reed spires, spire-reed, or pool-reed. _arundo phragmites_. see 'popular names of british plants,' by dr. prior, p. 219. [10] this name of temminck is no doubt applied to the continental form, _acredula caudata_, of linnaeus, not to the british form now elevated into a species under the name _acredula rosea_, of blyth. owing to want of specimens i have not been able to say to which form the channel island long-tailed tit belongs, probably supposing them to be really distinct from _a. rosea_. _a. caudata_ may, however, also occur, as both forms do occasionally, in the british islands. [11] see temminck's 'man. d'ornith.' [12] dresser's 'birds of europe,' _fide_ degland's grebe. [13] where both forms are common this constantly happens--indeed, so constantly that professor newton, in his new edition of 'yarrell,' has made but one species of the black crow and the grey or hooded crow, _corvus corone_ and _corvus cornix_, on the several grounds that there is no structural difference between the two; that their habits, food, cries, and mode of nidification are the same (in considering this, of course both forms must be traced throughout the whole of their geographical range, and not merely through the british islands); that their geographical distribution is sufficiently similar not to present any difficulty; that they breed freely together; and that their offsprings are fertile, a very important consideration in judging whether two forms should be separated or joined as one species. this last seems to me to present the greatest difficulty, and the evidence at present appears scarcely conclusive. of course in the limits of a note to a work like the present it is impossible to discuss so large a question. i can only refer my readers to professor newton's work, where they will find nearly all that can be said on the subject, and the reasons which have induced him to come to the conclusion he has. [14] rim. gu., p. 35. [15] query, was this done by a migratory flock, as peas would be ripe about june or july, when migratory flocks of wood pigeons would not be likely to occur; or was the damage to newly sown peas in the spring? [16] for one instance see notice of the quail; and the bird-stuffer had several other eggs besides those in the same nest as the quails. [17] _fide_ mr. macculloch. [18] see 'dresser's birds of europe.' [19] for the last, see temminck's 'man, d'ornithologie.' [20] _see_ 'zoologist' for 1867, p. 829. [21] temminck, 'man. d'ornithologie.' [22] _see_ temminck, 'man. d'ornithologie.' [23] the one above mentioned. [24] see 'zoologist' for 1870, p. 2244. [25] "hucard" in guernsey french (see 'metevier's dictionary,') who also says "notre hucard est le whistling swan ou hooper des anglais." [26] see temminck's 'man. d'ornithologie.' [27] see also métivier's dictionary. [28] see note in 'zoologist' for 1866. [29] 'de la mue du bec et des ornements palpébraux du macareux arctique après la saison des amours.' par le docteur louis bureau; 'bulletin de la société zoologique de france.' [30] 'zoologist' for 1869. [31] _see_ temininck, 'man. d'ornithologie.' [32] temminck, 'man. d'ornithologie.' [33] le tas is often written l'etat, but, as professor ansted says, "there can be no doubt it alludes to the form of the rock, viz., 'tas,' a heap such as is made with hay or corn." [34] see temminck's 'man. d'ornithologie.' [35] buffon. [36] see temminck's 'man. d'ornithologie.' [37] _see_ 'zoologist' for 1869, p. 1560. [38] _see_ temminck, 'man. d'ornithologie.' [39] this is since my note to mr. dresser, published in his 'birds of europe,' when i said i had never seen it in the channel islands, although it probably occasionally occurred there. index. auk, little, 178 bittern, 152 bittern, american, 153 bittern, little, 154 blackbird, 34 blackcap, 52 brambling, 72 bullfinch, 79 bunting, 70 bunting, snow, 70 bunting, yellow, 71 bustard, little, 117 buzzard, common, 14 buzzard, rough-legged, 14 chaffinch, 72 chiffchaff, 53 chough, 84 coot, common, 116 cormorant, 184 crake, spotted, 114 creeper, 59 crossbill, common, 80 crow, 88 crow, hooded, 89 cuckoo, 97 curlew, 132 dipper, 30 diver, black-throated, 174 diver, great northern, 173 diver, red-throated, 175 dotterel, 122 dotterel, ring, 123 dove, rock, 110 dove, turtle, 111 duck, eider, 165 duck, wild, 162 dunlin, 145 eagle, white-tailed, 1 falcon, greenland, 5 falcon, iceland, 6 falcon, peregrine, 8 fieldfare, 34 flycatcher, spotted, 24 gannet, 188 godwit, bar-tailed, 137 goldfinch, 76 goosander, 167 goose, brent, 157 goose, white-fronted, 157 grebe, eared, 170 grebe, great crested, 173 grebe, little, 169 grebe, red-necked, 172 grebe, sclavonian, 170 greenfinch, 76 greenshank, 139 guillemot, 176 gull, brown-headed, 210 gull, common, 207 gull, great black-backed, 209 gull, herring, 195 gull, lesser black-backed, 203 gull, little, 213 harrier, hen, 17 harrier, marsh, 16 harrier, montagu's, 18 hawfinch, 75 hawk, sparrow, 13 hedgesparrow, 87 heron, 148 heron, purple, 150 heron, squacco, 151 hobby, 10 hooper, 160 hoopoe, 95 jackdaw, 86 kestrel, 12 kingfisher, 101 kittiwake, 194 knot, 144 landrail, 115 lark, sky, 68 linnet, 78 magpie, 91 martin, 106 martin, sand, 107 merganser, red-breasted, 168 merlin, 10 moorhen, 115 nightjar, 102 oriole, golden, 25 osprey, 3 ouzel, ring, 36 ouzel, water, 30 owl, barn, 22 owl, long-eared, 20 owl, short-eared, 21 oystercatcher, 130 peewit, 120 petrel, fulmar, 216 petrel, storm, 216 phalarope, grey, 147 pigeon, wood, 108 pintail, 163 pipit, meadow, 67 pipit, rock, 67 pipit, tree, 66 plover, golden, 122 plover, grey, 121 plover, kentish, 125 puffin, 179 purre, 145 quail, 112 rail, water, 113 raven, 87 razorbill, 183 redshank, 134 redstart, 38 redstart, black, 39 redwing, 33 robin, 38 rook, 90 ruff, 139 sanderling, 147 sandpiper, common, 136 sandpiper, curlew, 145 sandpiper, green, 135 scoter, common, 165 shag, 185 shearwater, great, 213 shearwater, manx, 215 shrike, red-backed, 23 siskin, 77 smew, 169 snipe, 142 snipe, jack, 144 snipe, solitary, 141 sparrowhawk, 13 sparrow, house, 74 sparrow, tree, 73 spoonbill, 155 starling, common, 82 stint, little, 146 stonechat, 41 swallow, 106 swan, bewick's, 161 swan, mute, 158 swan, wild, 160 swift, 104 teal, 164 tern, arctic, 192 tern, black, 193 tern, common, 190 tit, blue, 60 tit, great, 59 tit, long-tailed, 61 thick-knee, 18 thrush, song, 33 thrush, mistletoe, 31 turnstone, 127 warbler, dartford, 49 warbler, reed, 44 warbler, sedge, 48 wagtail, grey, 64 wagtail, pied, 62 wagtail, white, 63 wagtail, yellow, 65 waxwing, 62 wheatear, 43 whimbrel, 133 whinchat, 43 whitethroat, 50 whitethroat, lesser, 52 woodcock, 140 woodpecker, lesser spotted, 91 wren, 58 wren, fire-crested, 55 wren, golden-crested, 54 wren, willow, 53 wryneck, 94 yellowhammer, 71 note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustrations. see 17618-h.htm or 17618-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/1/7/6/1/17618/17618-h/17618-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/1/7/6/1/17618/17618-h.zip) jethou or crusoe life in the channel isles illustrated by drawings prepared from author's own sketches by e. r. suffling author of "history and legends of the broad district," "how to organize a cruise on the broads," "afloat in a gipsy van," etc. third edition [illustration: publisher's logo] london jarrold & sons, 10 & 11, warwick lane, e.c. [all rights reserved] 1898 preface. as the writer does not pretend to possess what is termed literary style, he would ask the indulgence of the reader in any little slip of the pen which may occur in these pages, as it is not every crusoe who can command the facile quill, the pure style, or the lively imagination of a daniel defoe, to narrate his adventures. it must be borne in mind that the island of juan fernandez possessed many natural features, and a far greater area than jethou can boast of, and therefore more scope for the development of incidents and descriptive embellishment. doubtless many of the adventures here placed before the public will appear puny beside the exploits of the original crusoe; but it must be taken into consideration that the author does not, like defoe's hero, revel in the impossible. at the same time it may be noted that the adventures detailed are of a sufficiently exciting kind as to be above any suspicion of dulness. juan fernandez lies about four hundred miles from the nearest land, and it is therefore very difficult to imagine from whence the savages came who were about to convert friday into a _fricassee_. the friday of our story, y'clept monday, came to jethou in a natural if in an exciting manner, and it will be found that everything else in the narrative, if not an _exact_ account of what really did happen, is at least feasible. it is in fact a practicable narrative, served up in a plain, ungarnished form, except that to make it more palatable to the general reader a little love-story has been introduced towards the conclusion, which, it is hoped, sustains the interest right to the last, and makes the volume end as all good books should, by allowing the principal actors to "live happily ever after." e. r. suffling (harry nilford). _blomfield lodge_, _portsdown road_, _london, w._ contents. chapter i. page my birth and home--my pretty cousin--accident to the "kittywich"--journey to guernsey--pleading to become a crusoe--my wish granted--outfit secured--sail to jethou 9 chapter ii. i take possession of the island--landing stores--a grand carousal--farewell--alone 24 chapter iii. first thoughts and impressions--a tour of the island and description 32 chapter iv. farming operations--i make a plough and a cart--a donkey hunt--dumb helpers--my live stock 44 chapter v. canoeing--fish of the place--the ormer and limpet--a curious fishing adventure--queer captures from the sea--rock fish--construct a fish pond and water-mill 55 chapter vi. "flapp," the gull--surgical operation--the gull who refused to die--taxidermy extraordinary--feathered friends--snakes 69 chapter vii. i build a curious "box-boat"--an unpleasant night at sea--my sunday service--the poem, "alexander selkirk"--its applicability to my lot 79 chapter viii. a trip to st. sampson's harbour--a horrid porcine murder--a voyage round sark--nearly capsized--trip round guernsey--the pepper-box--curiosity of tourists 93 chapter ix. harvest operations--explore la creux derrible, and nearly lose my life--crusoe on crutches--an extraordinary discovery--kill a grampus--oil on troubled waters--make an overflow pump 112 chapter x. a storm and a wreck--the castaway--dead--a night of horror--the boathouse destroyed--a burial at sea 126 chapter xi. climate in winter--vision of my father--a warning voice--supernatural manifestations--the falling rock--my life saved by my dog 139 chapter xii. a fairy pool--wonders of the deep--portrait of a poet--the cave of fauconnaire--a letter from home and my answer to it 148 chapter xiii. another terrible storm--loss of the "yellow boy"--a ketch wrecked--i rescue a man from the sea, badly injured--he recovers 159 chapter xiv. work and song--sunday service--build a larger boat, the "anglo-franc"--collecting wreckage--commence a jetty--our cookery--blasting operations--the opening banquet 172 chapter xv. trawling for fish and dredging for curios--some remarkable finds--a ghastly resurrection--the mysterious paper--the hieroglyphic--a dangerous fall--_hors de combat_--attempts to unravel the paper 181 chapter xvi. yarns: the cabbages which hung their heads--the raft of spruce--voyage of the "dewdrop"--a lucky family--a deep, deep draught--the maire's cat 193 chapter xvii. the will again--searching for a clue to the paper--barbe rouge's will--a probable clue--hopes and doubts--perplexed--a memorable trawl by moonlight--a real clue at last--the place of the skull found 207 chapter xviii. digging for the treasure--a noonday rest--the ghastly tenant of the treasure house--we find the treasure--an account of what we discovered 217 chapter xix. preparing to leave--a letter home--we lengthen and enlarge the "anglo-franc"--re-christen her "happy return"--love at first sight--victualling and stowing cargo--pretty jeannette--the long voyage--incidents en route--vegetarians, and their diet--yarmouth reached--fresh-water navigation--my native heath 231 chapter xx. i surprise the old folks at home--all well--is priscilla false--we meet--the missing letters--a snake in the grass--dreams of vengeance 250 chapter xxi. the "happy return" inspected--more of my father's ghost--unpacking the treasure--seek an interview with walter johnson--two letters 257 chapter xxii. m. oudin arrives--the wedding day--division of the spoil--alec returns to jethou--wedding gifts--the end 265 appendix. a few words about the channel isles 271 list of illustrations. the island of jethou _frontispiece_ 1 the old home at barton 10 map of the island of jethou 35 plan of homestead 43 my plough 47 an antediluvian chariot 48 "i was swamped in a moment" 61 the "yellow boy," plans, etc. 81 a porcine murder 99 rocks at south end of sark 101 the main path of the island 113 la creux derrible 119 too late! 131 a ghostly visitant 141 "along the rugged cliff path" 161 rescue of alec ducas 167 the puzzling document 186, 209 a terrible fall 187 the tenant of the treasure house 223 lengthening the "anglo-franc" 235 [illustration: frontispiece--the island of jethou] [illustration: decorative chapter heading] jethou; or, crusoe life in the channel isles. chapter i. my birth and home--my pretty cousin--accident to the "kittywich"--journey to guernsey--pleading to become a crusoe--my wish granted--outfit secured--sail to jethou. that crusoe of crusoes, alexander selkirk, as i am aware, commences his entertaining history with his birth and parentage, and as i am also a crusoe, although a very minor adventurer, i may as well follow the precedent and declare my nativity. i was born at the little village of barton in norfolk, at the time the guns at balaclava were mowing down our red coats and tars, where my father had a small house facing the broad. it was a comfortable old two-storied building, with a thatched roof, through which a couple of dormer windows peered out, like two eyes, over the beautiful green lawn which sloped to the reed-fringed water. my father was in very comfortable circumstances, as he was owner of six large fishing vessels hailing from the port of great yarmouth, some ten or twelve miles distant as the crow flies. [illustration: the old home at barton.] being born, as it were, on the water (for a distance of a hundred yards matters but little), i was naturally from my birth a young water dog, although they tell me that for some months after i made my bow to the world, milk also played a prominent part in my career. as i grew into boyhood, of course i had my rowing punt and my rod, and thus gained my first taste for a solitary life, as it frequently happened that i would be away from sunrise to sunset on some little expedition to one or other of the neighbouring broads. by and bye came the time when i arrived at that rare age for enjoyment, fourteen years. this birthday, the fourteenth, was a red-letter day in my life, as i received two presents, which were in my eyes very valuable ones; my uncle presented me with a beautiful little light gun, and my father handed me over his small sailing boat. now i was a man! i felt it, and i knew it, and so did my schoolmates, for there was not one of them, who at some time or other, had not felt the effects of my prowess in a striking manner. still, the drubbings i gave were not always to my credit, for i was a very big and strong lad for my age, and my self-imposed tasks of long rowing trips and other athletic exercises, naturally made me powerful in the arms and chest. of my brain power i shall say little, as my mind was ever bent on sporting topics when it should have been diving into english history or vulgar fractions. some new device in fishing gear was always of more consequence to me than any inquiry as to the name of the executioner who gave charles the i. "chops for breakfast," as we youngsters used to say, when we irreverently spoke of the decollation of his majesty. still, somehow i stumbled through my schooling till i was sixteen, when i was sent off to my father's office on the quay at yarmouth to take charge of the books, which were an everlasting humdrum record of herrings and the various trawl fish which came in so frequently in our vessels. between whiles i had plenty of spare time, and whenever a few hours were allowed me, i could not keep out of my boat, so that if the sea happened to be fairly calm, i was sure to be found bobbing about on it, and was as well known by the fishermen along the coast ten miles north and south of yarmouth, as i was by the folks in my own village. when the sea was rough i turned my attention to breydon water, or the bure, or other of the rivers flowing into it, so that at an early age i could command my little boat as easily as one manages a horse in driving. on saturdays, when the wind and weather were at all favourable, i used frequently to hurry away from business as early as possible, and sail home along the bure and ant, a distance of about twenty miles, rather more than less, and became so accustomed to the route that i knew every tree and post, aye, and almost every reed and bulrush on the river's bank on my homeward way. sometimes night would close in rather quickly upon me, but as i only had two turnings to look out for, thurne mouth and ant mouth, i seldom made a mistake, however dark it might be, especially when the venerable old ruined gateway of st. benet's abbey was once passed. almost always these trips were solitary ones, if i except the companionship of my retriever "begum," who was a present from my cousin on his return from india. begum, he informed me, was a ruler in india, but whether male or female i never discovered. my dog was a gentleman, but to this day it has remained a matter of conjecture with me, as to whether we inadvertantly gave him a lady's name, or no. anyway, "begum" sounded well; he was a ruler, and being black coincided with our school rulers, which were always black with ink. unfortunately, everyone persisted (possibly to annoy me if they could), in calling him by gum! strongly accentuating the second word, and till the poor old dog died, the name stuck to him like a postage stamp to a letter. in my holiday trips i had a companion, my cousin priscilla, who was, if the term be permissible; as great a water dog as myself. i am not going to attempt a description of her, but i _must_ let the reader know that she was bigger, stronger, and a vast deal prettier than any girl within a radius of many miles of our village; not that i wish to disparage the looks or figures of our norfolk girls, for they can hold their own with the rest of england, as bad king harry knew when he wooed and won norfolk's queen, mistress anne boleyn of blickling. 'cilla, as i called my cousin for brevity, could row, sail a boat, skate, and shoot; yes, she was a very fair shot, and never a winter passed but she gave a good account of duck, teal, mallard, pewit, and geese, as the result of her prowess. but i will say no more of pretty cousin 'cilla at present, as this narrative is to be a record of what more nearly concerns myself, so i must not "_mardle_," as we say in norfolk, but proceed with my story. i was twenty-one and some months more, for the rejoicings consequent upon the event had become matter of past history, when my father one day received intelligence of one of his fishing vessels having been towed in a disabled state into the harbour of st. peter port, guernsey. she was so badly damaged that his presence was imperative, to decide as to her ultimate fate. she had been to a spanish port for cork and hemp, as the fishing season was not a very good one, and on her return voyage had run upon an island called jethou, during a dense fog, luckily in a calm sea, or she would never have come off whole again. nothing ever does when it once plays at ramming these granite islands. like the syrens, who lured or tried to lure ulysses, these islands are very fair to behold; but woe to the ship that comes into contact with them, for they rarely escape from their deadly embrace. the very next day (my father having allowed me to accompany him) we started for plymouth, a long journey, _via_ london, at which city, being my first visit to the metropolis, i could fain have broken our journey, but our business being urgent we steamed away to plymouth by the night train. after a substantial meal next morning we sallied out to find the first vessel sailing to guernsey, and were lucky in discovering one called the "fawn," which was preparing to sail the same day. although only a cargo ketch the skipper bargained to take us, and about two p.m. we unmoored and were soon off. our passage was a quick one, a strong n.w. wind bowling us over to st. peter port in time for early breakfast next morning. it is needless for me to go through the whole story of the running ashore of our smack, as beyond the important fact that it was her mishap which caused me ever to visit the channel islands, she has little else to do with my narrative. she was damaged very seriously amidships, but my father, who had a happy knack of turning almost everything to a good account, unless irredeemably hopeless, was struck with a capital idea in this instance. instead of selling her as a worthless hulk, he had her cut in two, the damaged timbers removed, a new length of keel laid down, and had her lengthened about ten feet; after which operation she was as sound as ever, and as my father had prophesied, no one recognized her again for the same vessel. while we were waiting for the "kittywitch" (for that was her name) to be run off the slips, we had plenty of time to look about us; in fact, we spent nearly seven weeks among these lovely islands. we explored guernsey and sark thoroughly, also herm as far as we were allowed, that island being more of a proprietary place than the others. we also spent about ten days in jersey, which is quite a large place in comparison with the other islands. but of all the islands, i think sark carries off the palm, not that it has beauties of its own, or is grander or more prolific, but it is an _epitome_ of all the other islands; in fact it contains in a small space every salient feature of the channel isles; the people, the granite cliffs, the bays, the caves, the hills, the woods, the shady lanes, the sandy beaches, are all there, and the surrounding sea is not a tone the less blue in its intensity, nor the air a whit less balmy than that with which the other islands are favoured. now it happened, while we were staying at st. peter port, awaiting the re-launching of our vessel, that we made friends with the proprietor of the island of jethou, upon which the "kittywich" struck, and although it was a good three miles from st. peter's harbour, yet we made occasional trips to the islet when the wind was fair and the sea smooth. with this little island of jethou i was charmed, and fancied i could make it my paradise, if only i could be allowed to live there for a twelvemonth, _a la_ robinson crusoe. at this idea my father, who was a thoroughly business-like, matter-of-fact man, set up his eyes and called me a name not at all polite; but as he was my parent, and viewed life through older optics than mine, i daresay he was right in the main, when he called me, to put it mildly, a "stupid fool." but although he pooh-poohed the idea, and bade me dismiss it from my mind, i could not help the thought entering my brain, and i wished something might possibly happen by which i might be left alone on the island, to try, at all events, what crusoe life was really like. sure enough something did happen which ultimately gave me the opportunity of carrying out my idea in its entirety. m. oudin, the proprietor of the island, had two events to chronicle in one day, events which quite altered his after life, and took him at an hour's notice from his jethou home to gardner's hotel, guernsey. a letter arrived at st. peter port for him, from paris, which, according to custom, was placed in the guernsey breast of a fisherman, who sailed with it straightway to m. oudin. the latter gentleman having adjusted his glasses, after instructing his man to give the messenger spirituous refreshment (which is so very cheap in these islands), proceeded to scan the contents of the letter. it was from a lawyer in paris, informing him of the decease of his brother, a leather merchant, who, dying wifeless and childless, had bequeathed him both his business and fortune. this intelligence of both joy and sorrow so bewildered and unstrung the nerves of m. oudin that, in accordance with his custom, he took a dram--in fact the circumstances were so very warrantable that he took two--and probably even more; or else they were like mynheer van dunk's, "deep, _deep_ draughts." anyway, upon giving the fisherman orders to sail him back to guernsey, and attempting to follow him with his serving man, they somehow found themselves at the bottom of the gulch which led down to the shore (upon which the boat was careened), so much mixed as to arms and legs, that an observer would have wondered what curious animal he was gazing upon. two of them scrambled to their feet, and as well as they could, shook themselves together; but the third, m. oudin, had unfortunately broken his right thigh-bone completely in two. then the maudlin men, despite his groans, placed him awkwardly in the boat, and hoisted sail for guernsey. as luck would have it, my father and i were standing upon the deck of the now nearly finished "kittywich," when the boat came in, and m. oudin having communicated to my father the nature of his hurt, my dad immediately gave orders for him to be taken to gardner's hotel, where we were staying, and hurrying for a doctor soon joined him there. the leg was set, and i spent the greater part of each day by the side of m. oudin's bed, chatting and reading to him, and attending to his wants. during our conversation i happened to mention what a great treat i should consider it to be allowed to live on his island for a few months. presently we went more fully into the "whys and wherefores" of the case, so that i quite began to imagine it might all come to pass as i wished, but the arrival of my father in the midst of our very pleasant conversation quite put a damper on the scheme. "bah! he would hear nothing of it; it was a mad fool's idea. no, no, think no more of such rubbish, my boy. crusoe is all very well to _read_, but it's a poor look out to have to _live_ crusoe." m. oudin, seeing how my mind was bent upon the scheme, gave my father a day or two to simmer down, and then took him in hand quietly and practically. "now look here, nilford," said m. oudin, motioning my respected father to draw his chair nearer to the bed-side, "as you know, i must for the present, at all events, leave jethou, for by my brother's death my presence is necessary in paris. by his decease i become possessed of a fortune of upwards of 700,000 francs and a large business to boot. now a business employing upwards of forty men will require my constant supervision, and it is therefore very unlikely that i shall ever return to jethou, except perhaps for a very brief holiday. "now, during my enforced sojourn in this town, your son has shewn me every attention and kindness, and with your permission i will give him the whole of my interest in jethou as a reward for his attention to me during my recovery. the island is crown property, which i rent for a nominal sum, and as to the furniture, fixtures, and live stock they shall be his (by your permission) to do as he likes with." my father made a wry face at this, while i, who sat speechless, could feel my heart bounding against my ribs for very joy. alas! my father negatived the whole thing. "it was not to be thought of; it could not be carried out by a youngster like me; i should perhaps die without assistance reaching me; i might starve," and a score more obstacles were mentioned. by and bye, however, with my earnest persuasion, backed up by m. oudin's quiet but forcible manner, my dad melted so far as to ask for a couple of days for consideration. oh! those two days, would they never pass? yes, they rolled by at last, and once more we were seated in m. oudin's room. "well, nilford, what is your decision? i trust it is a favourable one for the lad, for i am sure he would thoroughly enjoy the life; but if not, why in case he grew 'mammy sick,' he could return home. but the lad is of the right metal, and i'll warrant would see twelve months out without getting weary of the life. come now, nilford, give me your hand, and boy let go." by the way, my name is harry nilford, which i do not think i have mentioned before. then came a long verbal tug of war between these two good men, in which i could discern that my father's refusal was solely based upon his love for me and his apprehension for my safety. the tug of words, like a tug of war at an athletic meeting, was a long one, first one gained an advantage only to lose it to his opponent directly after; then the opponent would get in a strong verbal tug, and nearly draw his man over the line; but at length my father, with great reluctance, conceded a point, a great point in fact, one which virtually settled the contest. "m. oudin," said my parent, "i'll consent on one condition, which is, that i may be allowed to draw up an agreement as to the boy's tenancy of the island, and if harry agrees to abide by it, well and good." "very well, father," i quickly put in, "here are writing implements; draw up your code and i will soon tell you my decision." this was said with great emphasis on the "_my_," and delivered with an air of--"see what a decided person _i_ am." in an hour my father had drawn up the following document:- terms of agreement for my son's residence upon jethou for 12 months. my son harry wishes to live the life of a crusoe or hermit, on the island of jethou for twelve months, and to this i agree only on his signifying his willingness to abide by the terms stated in this agreement. 1. he shall allow no one to land on the island. 2. shall not himself land upon any of the surrounding islands (rocks which are uninhabited excepted). 3. shall not speak to a living soul during the course of his self-exilement. 4. shall obtain no stores nor goods of any kind from any other island, nor from any passing vessel. 5. shall hold no communication with anyone, in any way:- (_a_) either ashore or afloat. (_b_) except in case of sickness, accident, detrimental to limb or life, or (_c_) in other case of dire necessity. should my son choose to abide by the above regulations, i will agree to his holding the island for a period of one year. signed, thomas j. nilford. "there!" said my father, laying down his pen, "that is my ultimatum, my son; and mark me, i will agree to _nothing_ else." this was said in a manner which shewed plainly that he considered he had drawn up a code so stringent that he did not deem it at all likely i should accept his plan; but to his great chagrin, and i may almost say his consternation, i reached out my hand, after reading the document, and taking the goose quill, wrote under the last clause, "accepted--harry nilford." that being done, my father could not go back upon his word, and accordingly the whole thing was settled. m. oudin was pleased, and i was supremely delighted, but my good old father was quite dejected, and frankly avowed that it was like sentencing me to twelve months' imprisonment. so it was, but what a delightful imprisonment i anticipated it would be! however, in a day or two he came round, and as he could not well alter the turn circumstances had taken, he endeavoured to ameliorate them. he made me write down a list of what i thought i should require, and to this list he added a long supplement; and after mature consultation with m. oudin, another list was added as addendum; in fact, the articles were so numerous that they filled four huge packing cases. these cases were zinc-lined to keep the goods dry, as some of them were perishable, and no one can tell with what pride i gazed at these boxes, and thought of the glorious life i was about to lead. no thought of any accident, or other drawback, even entered my head; in fact, as i sat on the top of a case, swinging my legs and counting the hours which had to pass before the day arrived when i was to take possession of my island home, i was most consummately happy, being naturally ignorant of what was to befall me. at length came the day for launching the "kittywich," at which i assisted to my utmost; for i knew that any hitch with her meant further detention in guernsey for me. all went well, and as she slid off the stocks (like a duck entering the water) without a splash or jar of any kind, a ringing cheer went up, and then i knew that i should soon bid farewell to picturesque st. peter port, one of the finest harbour towns of great britain. a few more days and the "kittywich" had received her cargo for home, and with it a new name, for in consideration of her additional carrying capacity, we rechristened her the "cormorant." then came the day on which the blue peter was seen at her masthead, but what was even better in my eyes, was my own outfit packed in the four huge cases which stood so prominently on her hatchway amidships. m. oudin hobbled down to the harbour to see us off, and in doing so handed me a long heavy case as a parting gift, with instructions not to open it for a week, by which time he hoped to be far away in paris. we unmoored, left the harbour, and in an hour were laying at anchor off the north end of jethou. [illustration: decorative scroll] [illustration: decorative chapter heading] chapter ii. i take possession of the island--landing stores--a grand carousal--farewell--alone. the 2nd march, 187--, was a bright mild day, with but little wind and a quiet sea: just the day for landing my stores. the goods i had selected, and those added by my father and m. oudin, were of a very miscellaneous kind, and included provisions, farm and garden seeds (and a few implements), a canoe, a gun, clothing, fishing gear, oil and coal, cooking apparatus, and a score other things. as i knew the island was devoid of animals except rabbits, i asked for, and obtained some live stock--in fact, quite a farmyard. there were a goat, a dog, a cat, six pigeons, two pigs, six fowls, and last, though by no means least, a young donkey. the large cases of goods were landed in a boat, not without a slight mishap, however, as one of them, in being lowered over the bulwarks, was carelessly unhitched by the men in the boat and tumbled overboard; it fell in three fathoms of water, but the water was so translucent that it was clearly discernible on the bottom. this took quite an hour to get up, as it was an awkward thing to grapple, but there were plenty of hands willing to help in landing the goods, as several of the guernsey men had come over to have a parting spree. the pigs and donkey were pushed overboard and quickly reached the shore; the former, in spite of popular belief, proving themselves excellent swimmers when once they struck out shorewards, especially as the distance was short. on landing they went up over the island, and for the time disappeared among the rocks and wild bushes. by dusk the cry was, "all ashore," as everything had been landed, and the "cormorant" brought to a safe mooring under the lee of the rocky island of creviã§on. altogether there were nearly twenty of us, that is, my father and self, the skipper and crew of the "kitty," and several of the workmen who had been employed in altering and repairing the vessel; also the master shipwright, in whose charge the vessel had been. first came a grand spread in the principal room of the house, the provisions for which had been brought over from st. peter port. it was a great success, and after the improvised table had been cleared away (boxes, surmounted by planks covered with a sail, formed the table) the fun commenced. joke followed joke, and song followed song. then came toasts and sentiments, which were of quite an international character, as songs and sentiments in english, french, and spanish were continuously fired off, most of them being of a seafaring character. the skipper of the "cormorant" led off with a regular old north sea song, called, "the dark-eyed sailor." it is probably known by nearly every seaman in the north sea fishery, and is a great favourite at all carousals. it commences: "it's of a comely young maiden fair, who walked on the quay to take the air, she met a young sailor on the way, so i paid attention, so i paid attention to what they did say." this song, sung by a norfolk man, always seems to me a great curiosity, as the last line is lengthened out and twisted about in a most grotesque manner, apparently to suit the whim or fancy of the singer, for no two of them seem to conjure vocally with it in the same way. everyone present is supposed to join in the last line as a kind of chorus, and not only join in, but "give it lungs," as they say. some of them pay such attention to these points, that they appear in danger of lockjaw, or the starting of a blood-vessel, so heartily do they sing. then came a french song, with a chorus something about "houp, houp, houp ã  tra-la-la-la!" the singer standing on the top of an empty barrel to warble, and as he set the fashion, so every succeeding singer followed suit, and mounted the "pulpit," as they dubbed the cask. old roscoe, our wooden-legged mate (the right leg of flesh having been lost in my father's service), gave a funny jaw-breaking scotch song, with a chorus which no one could repeat, so when the chorus came he sang it alone, while we contented ourselves with howling "rule britannia"--at least all those who knew it, while the others who did not, laughed and smoked. then a spaniard (who was a shipwright) sang one of his national songs to an accompaniment of thumb-snapping (to imitate castanets), at which he was very expert. he had a fine baritone voice, and his song was full of fire, being a famous bull-fighting ditty, in which el toro came in for a dashing chorus. by and bye the fun became still faster and more furious, till old ross, of the timber-toe, took exception and would insist on order being kept. ross always constituted himself master of the ceremonies when anything festive was on foot, and our men, as a matter of course, left everything in his hands; but the men of st. peter port knew him not, and would have no authority from him, and as a kind of good-natured revenge for his interference, some of them played a practical joke upon him; but they did not know their man, for no sooner had the joke been carried into effect (gunpowder in his pipe) than ross seized his stick and knocked two of his tormentors down, the rest quickly fleeing out of doors. his wooden leg greatly handicapped him, but he at length got one of the men in a corner, who, on finding there was no means of escape, struck out right and left at ross's somewhat prominent nose, causing the claret to flow like the cataract of lodore. now his scotch blood was up, and he certainly would have done his assailant an injury, as he was a very powerful man, had not some of his comrades rescued him. but this did not appease his fury, for he went at them all with a glass bottle in one hand and a heavy stick in the other; but luckily his career was cut short by a man who ran behind him, and with a well-directed blow with an iron rod broke his leg clean in two just below the knee--the wooden one, of course. down came the hero, who in his rage tore up the earth around him to fling at the circle of grinning faces. by this time my father and the skipper came upon the scene, and after a time cooled down the gallant scot, and persuaded him to "gang awa" to bed, which he did, going in state, borne at the _four_ corners by four of his shipmates. this incident put a stop to the singing, but commenced fun in another way. some of the fellows cut up the remains of ross's leg and stick and set them on fire, the barrel which had done duty for a rostrum being also broken up and added; other wooden articles were quickly flung on, till at length quite a large bonfire was formed, round which these excited men danced hand-in-hand like children round a maypole. their manners, however, were hardly childlike, for they jumped, and yelled, and sang with the ruddy firelight glowing on their countenances, till they looked like a lot of demons performing some diabolical incantation. all around was the dark night, and rocks, and trees, which gave a most weird aspect to the scene when viewed from a short distance. and thus they were enjoying their pandemonium when my father, the skipper, and i left them in the "wee sma' hours" and retired to rest. how long they kept it up i know not, but when i awoke and dressed at daylight all was quiet. at six all hands were called, and a sorry sight they presented. ross had mounted a jury-leg, while among the other men no less than three black eyes appeared, beside bruised cheeks, and red swollen noses. however, all were friendly again, and agreed that they had hardly ever before spent such a jolly night. such was a sailor's idea of a jolly time or "high old spree!" breakfast over, my goods were hauled from the beach and placed in the different rooms and sheds according to their kind, while by noon the "cormorant," with her blue peter flying, was ready for a start northward to dear old england. the guernseaise had departed amid give and take cheering directly after breakfast, so that only the crew of the vessel remained. my father bade me an affectionate farewell on the deck of the vessel, but at the last embrace i felt too full of emotion to speak, for a lump was in my throat, and a tear started from my father's eye and rolled down his bronzed cheek, so that i knew that he, too, was greatly moved at losing me for such a long period. a firm grip of the hand told without words how we, father and son, loved each other, and to hide my emotion i tumbled over the bulwarks into the dingy, and was pulled ashore by a couple of hands, amid the hearty cheers of the men who stood on deck. they gave me a salute of twelve _guns_ (fired from two revolvers). i stood on the rocky shore and waved a tablecloth tied to a boat-hook till the vessel was hull down on the horizon, and then turned my face to my island home, not feeling nearly so happy as i had anticipated a month before. alone! i felt as if the whole world had departed from me, and that i was the sole survivor of the human race. [illustration: decorative chapter heading] chapter iii. first thoughts and impressions--a tour of the island and description. as i walked up the rocky path leading to the house, i must confess i felt anything but sprightly. i felt that crusoe life, after all, was not all _caviare_. i was very depressed, and must admit a few tears, as the whole force of what i had undertaken presented itself vividly to my mind. what if i met with an accident? what if i were taken ill? suppose someone put in at night and cut my throat for the sake of plunder? who would help me? who would know of my position? might i not die any one of a hundred deaths without the fact being known for weeks, perhaps months? what did this idiotic idea of mine amount to after all? where was the pleasure? would it not be better to be home in dear old barton with my skiff and pretty priscilla? such were some of my thoughts, but my depression i cannot so readily sprinkle on paper, and will not try to describe it. let it suffice that _i was_ depressed, and deeply too. i felt thirsty, so wandered to the house and sat down and poured myself out a bottle of bass, and as i drank it, became aware of the presence of my dog, who placed his muzzle in my hand and looked into my face with positively tears in his dear old eyes. why, after all, i was not alone. no, here was a friend indeed (teste byron), who would be ever by my side in weal and woe. "poor dog, are you hungry then?" yes he was, and by the bye, why should i not try something? we ate; and in half an hour--such is the changeableness of the human mind--i was as happy as a sand-boy (whatever that may be), as i wandered by the sunny shore. i would make a tour of inspection of my estate; and, reader, if you will kindly accompany me, i will show you the different sights of my little island. jethou, i must premise, is about half a mile long by a quarter wide. it rises steeply from the sea all round, except at the north end, where the slope is somewhat gentle. it is a dome-shaped mass, rising at the summit to a height of nearly three hundred feet. it may serve to give a good idea of its form if i liken it to a huge dish cover (a britannia metal one, if you will, for it is crown property), as it is very symmetrical when viewed from a distance. it is, in fact, a huge bosom-like hill, around which three paths are cut; the first varying from fifty to a hundred feet above the sea, the second averages one hundred and fifty feet above high water, and another runs round perhaps fifty feet higher still. these paths at certain points are connected by other paths, so that one may readily get from one elevation to another, except where the island is unusually steep, when zig-zag paths have to be negotiated. in one part seven or eight zig-zags have to be walked to rise to an elevation of about sixty or seventy feet, so steep is the south end of the island. at the north-west rises a curious pyramidal mass of granite, about one hundred and twenty feet above high water, called creviã§on, which may be reached on foot at low tide or even quarter flood; but after the tide once gets above the boulders it comes in like a mill race, rising at times during certain winds as much as seven feet within the hour; so that one may be cut off from the main island in a very few minutes, as it would be madness to try and cross during a heavy sea, whatever excellent swimming powers one might possess, as the rush of the tide would sweep one away like a straw. strange to say, there is another of these vast piles of granite, but of greater altitude and bulk, at the south end of the island, with just such a race of water running between it and the mainland after the tide turns. it is called la fauconnaire, or the falconry, and approaches two hundred feet in height, and very difficult of ascent. each of these rock-islands is surmounted by a stone beacon in form of a miniature lighthouse tower (without the lantern story), about fifteen feet high. these beacons serve seamen as landmarks, from which to take bearings, and to warn them of the danger of a too near approach to this dreadful coast--or rather coasts--for all these islands are terrible places in rough weather. [illustration: island of jethou by e. r. suffling] now i will ask the reader to accompany me on a brief tour round the island. starting from the house, past the pigeon-tower, we pass under some large walnut trees so thickly planted as to make the part very shady, even on a bright day, and on dull days quite gloomy. we take the middle path, which is about four feet wide, and flanked on each side by braken and boulders. indeed, nearly half the island consists of brakes and granite blocks. i will mention the various items of interest as we pass along, if the reader will supply his own imaginings of whirling seagulls, frisking rabbits, sea breezes, bellowing surge as it bumps and breaks against the granite sides of the island, flowers and bloom, singing birds and sweet-smelling shrubs, etc. these things a mere pen, however facile and graceful, cannot adequately describe without the help of the reader's brain; so i will ask him to imagine the above for himself, but i must warn him not to take cold with his lively imagination, as occasionally the march winds are very keen here, and in the present age of hypnotism, and thought-reading, and like gymnastics of the brain, it is very easy to make the imagination play pranks of an undesirable nature. now to resume our walk. taking the middle path we quickly ascend to a height of nearly two hundred feet above the boiling surge dashing against the impregnable rocks below, and get a splendid view of guernsey, a good three miles distant, stretching far away to the north, where it lies so low that it seems to melt gradually away into the sea. presently we come to some huge rocks which lie so much in our path that the footway has to wind round them. they are huge masses of granite so poised that apparently a good push would send them rolling into the sea below, but their very size makes them secure, as some of the larger ones must certainly weigh forty or fifty tons, and the wind would have to blow a hurricane indeed which would dislodge them. here is one weighing perhaps three or four hundredweight which i will try and push over. i tug, and push, and presently it nods, and nods, and rolls over and over, till gathering impetus down the steep side of the island, it crashes with irresistible force through the furze, and heather, and shrubs, clearing a path as it goes till it reaches the granite rocks, upon which it crashes and bounds, breaking off great splinters, till finally with a boom it buries itself in the foam, never more to be seen by mortal eyes. following the path we come to some curious terraces, one above the other, which form a hanging garden facing due south. now covered with turf, it was many years ago a famous potato garden. this spot is known as the cotils. almost opposite this end of the island and at a short distance, rises the huge pyramidal mass of granite called la fauconnaire (the falconry). it is nearly two hundred feet high, and surmounted, as already mentioned, by a white stone beacon, which from jethou looks the shape and size of a loaf of white sugar; but a scramble to the top of the rocks for those who have nerve to climb the steep sides of la fauconnaire, will show that the sugar loaf is fifteen feet high. la fauconnaire is, i believe, unclimbable except at one place, at least for those who are not experienced cragsmen or alpine experts. at low water a causeway of rocks joins it to the mainland, but at half-tide even it is impassable, except in a boat on a calm day. on a windy day such a strong tide rushes through the strait that a boat would be swept away in the attempt to cross, although the distance is only four or five hundred feet. the narrowness of the channel makes the rush greater. still keeping the middle path we come to an awful yawning chasm in the earth, called la creux terrible. its sides are so sheer that one shudders to approach its crumbling brink for fear a slip should mean a step into eternity. no man could fall here and live to tell the sensation. standing near the brink one can just discern the bottom, and hear the sea surging and rolling along the floor as the tide gradually rises. the chasm is funnel-shaped, and about two hundred feet deep by about one hundred feet across. the bottom is connected with the beach by a cavern, which may be entered at low tide, and the view taken from below upward; but woe to the individual caught in this cave, for he would have but a poor chance for his life if the tide once hemmed him in. leaving this dreadful place, which i never approached but twice in the dark, we shortly come to a very noticeable rock rising from the sea; it is called le rocher rouge, but as the apex takes the form of a gigantic arm-chair, i have taken the liberty (as i have done with many other places and things) of rechristening it trã´ne de neptune (neptune's throne), and it has so fixed itself in my mind, that i have often during a stormy night wondered if he might not be sitting there ruling the elements, but never had the temerity to go and see. i may here tell the reader that although not naturally superstitious, i have a way of peopling my island with beings during the solitary walks i take in the day, that at night i almost fancy these spirit-forms hover round me--perhaps watching me. it may be that i have mistaken the flight of a sea-gull or night-bird for something superhuman, but on several occasions i have been warned of approaching danger by something outside myself; not tangible to the touch, nor definable to the eye, but still noticeable to the ear and to the mind. put it down a bird, as your opinion, reader, and enjoy that opinion, and let me enjoy my warning watchers, whether fowl or spirit. perhaps during my narrative i may have more to say of my "hovering ones." from the island, at the point opposite neptune's throne, a good view of sark is obtained; on one day it will be seen standing clearly above the sea, with brechou or merchant's island clearly discernible, and la coupã©e (the isthmus which holds the two parts of the island together) plainly in view in the sunlight; while on another day but a misty view of it may be obtained; on yet another day it will be quite invisible, although the distance is only about six miles. resuming our path, herm is close on our right, the swift channel, la percã©e, running between us and it, and as it lies in the sun looks a very beautiful picture, especially as the prettiest end, the south, is presented to our view. a little further we turn up the hill and come to a grove of rather stunted trees, standing like a double row of soldiers up to their knees in braken. it is a lovely spot, as the pretty fern-like brakes grow in great luxuriance beneath the spreading arms of the walnut and other trees. these brakes grow so tall and thick that it is quite difficult to force a passage through them, except where i have cut a narrow path leading to a clearing, across which, on hot days, i frequently swing my hammock, so as to obtain the full benefit of the cool sea breeze as i sway beneath the welcome shadow of the biggest walnut. beyond the grove, at the summit of the island, is my arable land, my farm, lying in a fence of wire-netting, without which i should not be able to preserve a blade of anything eatable from the hordes of rabbits which make the island a perfect warren. we descend again to the pathway with care, as the island's side is so steep here that a trip over a stone or root might result in fatal consequences. as we approach the north-east corner of the island we find the pathway gradually descending, till we are not more than twenty or thirty feet above sea level, and notice that a spur of land hooks out into the sea, forming quite a little bay, very rugged, and very rocky, but still very convenient as a haven in light weather. here i keep my crab and lobster pots, as it is easily accessible from the house. i call it baie de homard (lobster bay). keeping along the shore, to the north end of the island, we arrive at a two-storied stone building which stands on the beach. this is my store-house (for fishing gear, etc.) and workshop, and is situated only a short distance from the house--perhaps three hundred yards. in the days of the old privateers this house played an important part, for it was fitted as a blacksmith's and carpenter's shop, and was probably a very handy place for slight repairs to be carried out at very short notice. leaving the store, a beautiful velvety path, broad enough for a cart road, leads up a slight ascent skirting the beach to the house and cottage, which i naturally call by a word very dear to me in my solitude--_home_. i will ask the reader to glance at the accompanying plan to aid him in getting a clearer idea of this homestead than my pen, unaided by pictorial effort, would convey. a, then, is a comfortable and picturesque four-roomed cottage. b is the stable for my noble steed, edward. c is the store-house, with loft over for straw, etc., for said noble quadruped. in the store i keep my utensils and implements for farm work, potatoes, flour, coals, and other heavy goods. d, sheltered garden for winter crops; f, the vegetable and fruit garden, in the midst of which stands an immense and very prolific mulberry tree; it spreads its branches fifty-four feet from north to south, and fifty-one feet from east to west. the garden contains fruit trees of all kinds. e, the seignieurie or government house--my palace--or, in plain words, a solid stone-built four-roomed house that might stand a siege. the front windows look out over the lawn, g, to the sea beyond, and those at the back command the well-walled-in fruit garden, f. h is devoted to shrubs and medicinal herbs. j is the flower-garden with a summer-house in the corner. k, the well of excellent water. l, flight of stone steps to the lower path leading round the island. m, pigeon-tower and fowl-house amidst walnut trees. n, plantation and forest trees. o, watch house, once used as a strong room or prison. p, an old iron gun (mounted on a stone platform, which would probably fall to pieces at the first discharge) for summoning aid in case of sickness or distress. q, road to fishing-store and boathouse. r, path up the hill to the piggery. i think the reader may, from the foregoing, form some idea of the island and homestead, as i have taken him all round the former, and pointed out, although very briefly, the various portions of the latter. i have wasted no time nor ink in so doing, as he like myself, will doubtless find more pleasure in the narrative which commences in the succeeding chapter. a fair idea of the island is necessary, so as clearly to understand some of the incidents which are placed before the reader, and i trust i have said sufficient to enable him to follow me in what i have to tell of my sojourn on the pretty, though solitary island of jethou. a glance at the accompanying map will give a good idea of the various places in jethou mentioned in this story. [illustration: decorative scroll] [illustration: plan of homestead 1890] [illustration: decorative chapter heading] chapter iv. farming operations--i make a plough and a cart--a donkey hunt--dumb helpers--my live stock. my first few days were spent pleasantly enough, but as soon as the sun had set my spirits would droop, and i felt anything but jolly, but like mark tapley, i firmly made up my mind to be happy under all circumstances. i had a deal of unpacking to do, and determined, as my stay was to be a lengthy one, "to find a place for everything, and keep everything in its place." my initial motto was a good one, and i worked for quite a week scheming and contriving all kinds of receptacles and appliances for my heterogeneous goods and chattels. my goat and donkey i turned loose, and as for my pigs, i had not seen them since i landed; but i trusted that they were not like the evil-tempered swine of the bible, who cast themselves headlong into the sea, for if that were the case they could commence their suicide at any moment by rolling down any of the steep sides of the island into the sea. i trusted that my pigs were sweet-tempered beasts, and of a non-suicidal variety, and so they afterwards proved, and toothsome into the bargain. the boathouse received my canoe, fishing gear, carpenter's tools, and gunpowder, for i was afraid to keep the latter near the house, as i had a large quantity, nearly half a hundredweight. i had this large quantity for several reasons, the principal being that i wished to shoot a large collection of sea fowl, and still have plenty for the big cannon which was to summon aid from herm or guernsey, should it be required. my good father had made arrangements for me to signal as follows: if i fired a single gun, the coastguard from herm would put off to my aid; if two guns were fired, help was to be considered very urgent, and either the coastguard or one of the peasants of herm would put over, if the weather were calm enough to allow of a boat being launched. if i fired minute guns, either by night or day, they would be reported to the harbour master of st. peter port, who had my father's instructions to send out a doctor immediately. thus i felt comparatively easy in my mind as to help in case of great need, either by accident or sickness. my gunpowder was therefore kept in the lower floor of the boathouse, as i thought it the safest place. i took only a pound at a time to the house for shooting purposes. having got everything stowed away to my satisfaction, my next step was to look over the island and see how i could employ my time in cultivating the soil. near the top i found a large patch of arable land fenced in with wire netting, but it was greatly overgrown, having apparently been some time out of cultivation. i stepped it out in as correct yards as i could command by striding, and to my dismay found there were just two acres, which discovery somewhat nonplussed me for a time; for to dig over two acres with a spade was no light task, and i took time to reflect and see if i could not concoct some easier means of turning the soil than by digging. down i sat upon a stone and lighted my pipe--the solitary man's comforter--and with my gun across my knees ready for a stray shot, i made out my plan of campaign, after much cogitation. why not make a plough? nothing is made of nothing! what had i to turn into a plough? then the idea of a real saxon plough came into my head, and there the idea took tangible form, as i saw close by me a tree which would answer my purpose. down went my gun, and away i trotted down the rocky path to the house, and quickly returned with an axe. i was quite out of breath when i regained the tree, having made as much haste as if the tree were provided with means of locomotion, or as if i had to cut down the tree in a given time; but that is just my way, i am much too impulsive. a few strokes laid the tree low, and i soon had it trimmed ready for my purpose. my next care was to make a pair of wheels, and this took me much longer. i had noticed during one of my walks a large tree that had been felled for some purpose, but never used, and to it i repaired with a saw and worked away for several hours, cutting two slices from the fairly symmetrical bole, about four inches wide. these gave me a pair of solid wheels about twenty inches in diameter, which were large enough for my purpose. these i attached to a short axle and bolted to the tree which i felled, and by horizontally thrusting an iron rod, two feet long, through the nose of my plough, about eighteen inches from the end, i had my implement complete. the iron rod was to keep the pointed end of my oak tree from burying itself too deeply in the ground. it was not a beautiful object, but its usefulness condoned its ugliness. [illustration: my plough.--utility, not beauty.] i placed my handiwork aside for a season, and the next two days made myself a curious sideless cart, which i could not help thinking bore a great resemblance to a ladder on wheels. two more sections from the big tree formed the wheels, while a square piece of quartering thrust through formed an axletree. the shafts and body of my vehicle were two thick ash saplings twelve feet long, joined together with barrel staves two and a half feet long, with the convex sides downward; then fore and aft of the wheels i erected a species of gibbet to prevent my load from shifting, which having done, my antediluvian chariot was complete. [illustration: an antediluvian chariot.] having provided my implements i now proceeded to till my land. i took a whole back-aching day to pluck all the large weeds and stones off my farm, and retired weary at night to dream of my flourishing crops of the future. up with the lark next morning, i set out to find my noble long-eared steed, edward; but although i roamed about for an hour and a half i could not discover him anywhere, so breakfasted and searched again, but to no purpose. i gave him up as having been drowned whilst browsing on the toothsome but truculent thistle or gorse. i looked at my plough and cart in dismay, saying, "man proposes, and an ass disposes." but shortly after this dismal reflection, judge of my joy when i heard his musical voice lifted up in sweet song, and borne to my enraptured ears on the balmy noontide breeze. laugh not, reader, for the poor brute's voice _was_ sweeter to me in my loneliness than that of the greatest operatic singer who ever trilled her wondrous notes. even after hearing the ass's braying i was a long time before i came upon him quite down upon the stony shore, with not a blade of grass nor even a thistle for him to nibble at. how he got there is to me a problem to this day; but how i laboured to get him up again will ever remain in my mind, for it makes me feel sore all over to think of it. where i found him was at the south end of the island, facing rocky fauconnaire. how i wandered up and down seeking a place for him to regain the lower path of the island. but all in vain. no place could i find; and all the afternoon i worked like a titan, getting him up to the pathway again. poor fellow! he was very docile, and i had thoughts of trying to carry him up; but although i got under him and lifted him, i could not climb with him, so at last had recourse to a block and fall, and after bruising and battering the poor creature somewhat, i got him to a safe ledge of rock, from whence by pushing, and tugging, and lifting, i got him up, foot after foot, till the perspiration streamed down my face. the real robinson crusoe never had anything half so difficult as this to contend with, and yet here was i at the outset working harder than a galley slave! i envied robinson crusoe number one, and went at my donkey again, till towards evening i got him to the lower path, and after a rest rode him home in triumph, lecturing him severely all the way "not to be such an ass again." next day i was _not_ up with the lark--in fact it was past nine before i opened my eyes, so much had the previous day's exertions tired me. i felt tired and stiff all over, but my morning tub and breakfast quickly restored me nearly to par. edward was now domiciled in the stable, so putting on his collar and a pair of home-made traces i harnessed him, with the help of various contrivances of cord and staples, to my mediã¦val cart, and _bumped_ (for my cart was springless) down to the beach to gather seaweed. all day long we worked, "eddy" and i, taking load after load to the top of the island; and the next day too was occupied in carting up seaweed or "vraic," as the natives call it, except that we also took up two or three loads of withered bracken, leaves, and other rubbish, which i burned and spread over the land. after the ash and seaweed were spread i ploughed it in after a fashion, streaking long shallow trenches with my pointed wooden plough, till i had gone over the whole of the land. i looked at the tumbled ground with no great satisfaction, for as much of the manure-seaweed was upon the surface as under, so i turned to and ploughed crossways, which gave it a little better appearance. then i allowed it a week to rest, taking my spade in the meantime and breaking the lumps and digging in the straying "vraic." at length i had my land in tolerable order, although the seaweed refused to rot as quickly as i desired. i reckoned, however, that it would rot in time, and thus nourish the seed i put in, and so it did. i will not weary the readers with too much of my farming cares, but have written a little about it to show what obstacles a crusoe has to overcome, and how hard he has to work to gain his ends. he has no one to pat his back when he is triumphant, nor anyone to sympathise with him over a failure. he is his own critic and censor. suffice it to say that in due course i had patches of barley, clover, lucerne, mangold, carrots, etc., sown, and when once the seeds were in i had plenty of leisure for other pursuits. although early spring, the weather was very mild to what i had been used to on the norfolk coast; in fact the temperature was as warm in april as it is in the east of england at the end of may. the garden by the house also had my care, for i planted enough edibles in it to have maintained a large family, instead of a solitary being like myself. still, i counted my animals as my family, and got to love them all, even to the little pigs. i named them all. there was my dog "begum," the donkey "eddy," the goat "unicorn," which i contracted to "corny." this name was derived from the fact that she had broken off one horn close to her head. the pigs being twins were "romulus" and "remus," and, like the first romans of that name, had frequent family quarrels, which were, however, soon ended, the brothers rolling over each other in delight in their pig stye. "corny" gave me about a pint to a pint and a half of milk a day, which i found quite sufficient for my wants, as i only used it for breakfast and tea, water forming my invariable drink for dinner. breakfast and tea-supper i usually took with some show of punctuality, but my dinner was eaten in all sorts of places--on the creviã§on, in my canoe, on the beach, or in the grove--in fact, just where i happened to be when i felt hungry and had my wallet with me. "begum" always took his meals with me, except when i was on the sea, when the poor fellow would follow my canoe round the island, and watch till i came back again. then his joy knew no bounds. he would go fairly mad with delight, and i must confess i used to look for my comrade as fondly as if he were a brother awaiting my landing. he would carry quite a big load for me up the rocky cliff path, and esteem it quite a pleasure; but when i had anything extra heavy to take up i made him fetch "eddy" to my aid. strange as it may seem, this was a very simple proceeding, for i taught him in a couple of days, thus: on the stable door i fastened a piece of wood to act as a fall-latch, which worked so easily that "begum" could lift it with his nose and allow the door to swing open. then "eddy" would march out, and wherever i happened to be, would trot to me at the sound of my voice. indeed, at length he used to follow "begum," directly he was released, to any part of the island. therefore, if i required "eddy's" services when i was quite at the south end of the island, i had only to send "begum" to fetch him, and away they would come together. this proceeding had only one drawback, and that was, that "eddy" would always help himself to a mouthful of anything in the way of green food, which happened to be growing within his reach, if he had to come near my little farm. i verily believe that "begum" used to take his friend past my crops on purpose, although it was by no means the easiest way to get to the cotils, where my potato crop grew, and where i often used to go to get a shot at the sea fowl on the fauconnaire. as the crops were principally for his own winter maintenance, i could not grudge him a bite of his food in advance. many a time when i have landed from my boat very tired, after a long cruise or fishing expedition, i have always found "begum" waiting for me, ready to fetch "eddy," at my word, to help to beach the boat and carry my gear up the cliff. this used to be of such frequent occurrence that upon the end of the boat's painter i worked a kind of collar for "eddy" to pull upon in comfort. this collar i made of old sacking sewed over with sennet, and i must say it was quite a success, for he would hold his head out as naturally to receive the collar as a beggar would hold out his hat for the reception of an alms. the pigeons i brought with me and placed in the cote or tower soon departed or died; possibly they were killed by hawks or other birds, but that i never could discover. anyway, the tower was not long tenantless, for a pair of owls took up their abode there, and soon had a family of six fluffy little fellows. instead of destroying these birds as many persons do in england, i allowed them to haunt the tower, in return for which they kept the mice down, and i could not find that they did me any kind of damage. i got quite to like their "to-whitting" and "to-wooing" more than the monotonous "cooing" of the pigeons which never did sound like music to my ears. my six hens and a cockerel were located in the watch-house, from whence they had the run of a large piece of wild ground overhanging the cliff. eggs i had in abundance, and even to spare, and before i left the island had over thirty fowls. beside the fowls' eggs i could, in the spring, gather the eggs of the wild fowl inhabiting the islands by the score. enough of animals and birds; let us open another chapter on another topic. [illustration: decorative scroll] [illustration: decorative chapter heading] chapter v. canoeing--fish of the place--the ormer and limpet--a curious fishing adventure--queer captures from the sea--rock fish--construct a fish-pond and water-mill. when the warm days and calm seas of may came i turned my thoughts to the sea, of which i am passionately fond, and of which one never seemed to tire, as one does of tame river water. unfortunately my only vessel was a canoe about fourteen feet long by three feet beam, and for sea work, such as one gets round the shores of these islands, quite unfitted; but there it was, and i had simply hobson's choice--that or none. on a calm sea, with a tide running only one way, such as one gets on the english coast, the canoe was all very well and fairly safe; but here, through the percã©e, as the channel is called between herm and jethou, the tide at times runs with great speed, and meeting with the resistance of the ferriers and other huge rocks, whirls, and turns, and foams in all directions, so that a frail craft like a canoe would be a death-trap to anyone foolhardy enough to venture out in it. that being the case, i could only follow my canoeing hobby when the sea was calm, but even then did not venture far from land. i had several narrow escapes from upsetting, and at last, whilst lying sleeplessly in bed (where, by-the-bye, most of my thinking and scheming is done), the idea of making alterations in my canoe came under my consideration, and before i went to sleep that night i had made up my mind to improve her stability in several ways. i would make her fore and aft compartments air-tight, so that if she turned turtle she would act as a life preserver, and moreover, why not add an outrigger, such as the natives of the pacific have to theirs, making them almost impossible to upset? the second day saw my plans an accomplished fact. i put in bulkheads fore and aft, and pitched the canoe inside and out, making her heavier, but thoroughly water-tight--the end compartments being even air-tight. i raised the combing of the well to six inches in height, put on a deeper keel, shortened my mast, and added an outrigger. what more _could_ i do? the outrigger i made of a bundle of bamboos lashed firmly together, like the pictures one sees of the old roman fascines, or rods of authority, and this i fastened about five feet from the side by means of a couple of stout ash saplings. i found these improvements so admirable, that i was not afraid in light winds (having gained a knowledge of the tides and currents) of venturing anywhere either around jethou or herm. immense quantities of fish are found all round jethou, the principal being lobsters, crabs, crayfish, spider crabs, plaice, john dorey, soles, ormers, pollock, bass, gurnard, skate, cod, long-nose, rock fish, turbot, brill, whiting, and conger. several of the fish i had never seen before, as they are rarely if ever caught off the norfolk coast; thus john dorey, spiders, ormers, rock fish, and pollock were all new to me, and gave me great enjoyment in their capture, beside which i was greatly taken with the flavour of both the dorey and pollock, scores of which i caught in the percã©e. the ormer, rarely seen in england, is, i believe, sometimes called the sea ear. it is somewhat the shape and size of a half cocoa nut (divided lengthwise). the outside of the shell is of a rough texture, and of a dull red colour, while the inside is beautifully coloured with an iridescent mother o' pearl coating. (why do we never hear anything of the father o' pearl?) the ormer adheres to the rocks like the limpet tribe, but is seldom seen above _low_ water-mark, like the limpet, who loves to be exposed to the sun and air twice a day. the flesh of the ormer, when grilled, is something like a veal cutlet cooked in a fishy frying-pan, and i cannot say i was greatly enraptured with the uncommon univalve. my first meeting with the ormer was by accident. i was having an _al fresco_ lunch of bread and raw limpets which i was detaching from the rocks, eating them with a seasoning of vinegar and pepper which i had brought with me when, being close down to the water among some outlying rocks (as it was a very low neap tide), i saw something just under the surface of a pool, of a dull red colour, which i perceived to be a shell-fish of some kind. stooping down, with a rapid blow of my knife i detached it, and ere it sank into the unknown depths of the pool, plunged in my left hand and secured it. it was an ormer--at least, so i supposed, and on this supposition took it home and compared it with a book on shells i had, and being satisfied with my researches, cooked and ate the mollusc, although in some doubt. next day, feeling much as the first man who ever swallowed an oyster did--alive and hearty--i went at dead low tide and gathered some more and ate also, but finally came to the conclusion that one good sole was worth a sack of ormers. still, there is no accounting for taste. some of the islanders are very fond of ormers; but what is one man's meat is another's "_poisson_." although at neap tide on many occasions i gathered many more, it was more for the beauty of the shells than the flavour of the fish inside them. for one with artistic tastes and love of colour like myself, the interior of an ormer shell is a veritable fairy grotto. one discovery i made regarding them and that is, that they form a dainty dish for the huge conger eels which abound among the rocks, and about this bait i must presently tell a little more. the granite rocks below high water-mark are simply spotted all over with myriads of limpets, some of them of enormous size. many of the shells in my collection are over three inches across, and the fish when cooked make two ample mouthfuls. my manner of dressing them was to place them in a tub of sea water for a night, and then to lay them on a gridiron, point downward, over a bright fire, and grill them. when cooked they would drop out of their shells when turned upside down over a plate containing vinegar and pepper, and i considered them very nice. a friend of mine who has tasted them in cornwall says they would make any well-bred dog sick. thus, i say again, tastes vary! i must allow, however, that the leathery limpet is as far behind the delicious sole or turbot in flavour, as a turnip is inferior to an apple; but still a change is desirable, and for the matter of change i think i had a turn at everything eatable on the island or in the sea surrounding it, and still live to tell the tale. well, now, let me tell an adventure that befell me while conger fishing off the creviã§hon one calm evening just after dark. first let me point out a device i had to adopt because my canoe had not sufficient space to hold or carry all the fish i sometimes caught. i had to have recourse to a floating fish carrier, and this i contrived out of an old dry goods box, which i bored full of holes, so as to allow a current of water to flow through and keep my fish alive. to give floating power to this _fish-pound_, i fastened large bungs all round the outside, and to each of the four corners i attached an inflated bladder, so that i could easily store in it from thirty to forty pounds of fish, as it must be observed, that whilst _in_ the water the fish will swim, and thus add but little weight to their floating prison. this box i attached to the outrigger by a stout lanyard, and fended it off with the paddle, if the eddy brought it in too close proximity to my craft. well, to my fish story. i had been anchored for about two hours near rocher rouge fishing for conger, of which i had caught three small ones, beside several rock fish and whiting, when i thought i would try another kind of bait, so i armed my hook with a small ormer, which being of a gristly texture, held on the barb well. over the side went the gear, attached to a strong line of thick water-cord, and although it was down a considerable time no warning tug gave hope of sport to follow, so i busied myself with the other two lines i had down, with a fair amount of success. at length getting tired of taking nothing on my big line, i thought i would coil it up and examine the bait, but when i had got the line straight up and down it refused to leave the bottom, tug as i would. i pulled till my canoe danced and bobbed about in an alarming manner, in fact, till the coaming was in danger of going under the gently heaving sea, but to no purpose; it would not budge, so tripping anchor i paid out line and paddled fifty yards, thinking that if my hook had fouled a rock i might by a side pull clear it. i hauled in gently, and to my surprise found the line come in with a curious vibrating motion, in little jerks, till it got straight up and down again, and then i had a hard pull to get it from the bottom; but still i did get it up little by little, and was now positive that it was a fish of some kind, and of great weight. foot after foot of line came in very spasmodically, and with great reluctance, till at last a great, ugly, slimy head, with yellow-green eyes, came above the surface, and so large did it appear, that it quite took me aback. in my surprise i let go several coils of the line before i knew what i was about. the head was enormous and _ex pede hercules_. i knew the body must be of gigantic proportions too. that i had hooked one of neptune's fiends seemed certain, and i was some time before i hauled up again to see really what i had captured. in came the line again, foot by foot, with great difficulty, till at length up came the terrible head again. but this time i was prepared, and setting my teeth, held on. it was a huge conger, such as i had never seen before, and which came very near being the last i might gaze upon, for suddenly it brought its tail up over the outrigger, and before i could counterbalance my craft, seemed to swamp the canoe by its dead weight and the power of its fins. i was in the water in a second, but never loosened my hold of the line. letting go the loose coils i struck out for rocher rouge, only some fifty yards away, and, landing at the foot of the great granite throne, commenced to haul in my line. to my joy the canoe, which still floated with its coamings out of water, although the well was full, followed my line. i afterwards ascertained that in falling overboard i had dropped between the canoe and outrigger, and had thus drawn the line through the intervening space after me. to this fact i owed the recovery of my craft, which would otherwise have floated away, as i should have been afraid to follow it, although an excellent swimmer, as the currents are here so strong that i should probably never have got back again. [illustration: "i was swamped in a moment."] the canoe came slowly in till it was within reach, when i seized it, and with a mighty effort dragged it ashore undamaged. the lines i also drew in and coiled tidily away, leaving the long one till the last, which, to my great surprise, when i hauled in, still had the monstrous eel in tow. i quite thought he had freed himself when he swamped me, but such was evidently not the case. having a firm footing i hauled in my line with more confidence, and at length got my lord close to the rocks, and in the clear water could see his huge length and thickness. he was a terrible fellow, and if he had got my legs in his embrace might have easily drowned me; but i did not give him a chance to use either his tail or teeth, but getting his head close to the rocks i took a turn of the line round a projecting crag, and proceeded to slaughter the monster with my only weapon, the paddle. he took a lot of assassinating, but gave up the ghost at last, after i had nearly pounded his head to a jelly. old "begum," i must mention, witnessed my sudden departure from my canoe, and the dear old fellow arrived at rocher rouge at the same moment that i landed, so that we faced each other dripping wet in a most comical manner. i sent "begum" to fetch "eddy," and in the meantime emptied the canoe and put all straight, so that when the two animals appeared on the cliff, standing out in bold relief against the clear sky, i was in my canoe and on the way to the cotills. they followed me till i landed, and came and stood by me like two old comrades. i had dragged the conger after me through the sea with a cord through his gills, and this cord i attached to "eddy," who dragged him home in triumph, while i sat on his back, _ã  la conqueror_, as i rode into my domain, tired and wet, and as hungry as the proverbial hunter. a cheerful blaze of wood soon caused the kettle to boil, and over my tea-supper i congratulated myself over my lucky adventure, for to lose neither fish, canoe, nor self, was indeed a large slice of luck. next day i improvised a pair of scales with the help of a half hundredweight and a seven-pound weight which i possessed, and found to my surprise that the monster weighed one hundred and three pounds. this was not only the largest eel i ever caught, but the largest i ever saw. in guernsey market the heaviest conger i saw was one of sixty-seven pounds--a baby in comparison to mine! the weights i used in weighing the monster were stones adjusted to the proper iron weights, which i used as standards, and then by selecting various sized stones obtained after great toil a whole set, from one pound up to ten pounds, and thus could weigh anything. i had many other fishing adventures, but i think the above was about the most exciting. i had many good takes of whiting and pollock, but was not so fortunate among the soles, and plaice, and such-like ground game, as my net was a very ramshackle affair of my own construction. i had also some remarkable miscellaneous captures at different times. once in the winter i had laid a long line for codling, and brought up, firmly hooked, a very nice red tablecloth, beautifully worked round the edge by some skilled hand in an oriental pattern. i used it on gala days as a flag, and i dare say passers by in the various vessels wondered to what nationality it belonged, as the centre was ornamented with a golden elephant with very curly tusks worked in white beads. another day i fished up a copper oil can, such as engineers use to oil machinery with; and yet another time a bag of gravel which had apparently once formed part of a yacht's ballast. when i found time heavy on my hands i would often take my canoe about fifty yards south of la fauconnaire, and with two or three lines fish for rock fish, and never, on a single occasion, returned empty-handed. the worst part of this performance was digging the bait of lugworms on the little beach of creviã§hon. it was terribly hard work lifting the rocks and boulders aside to find a place to dig, and then it was harder work in digging the nasty worms from the granite grit in which they resided, dwelt, or had their horrid being. probably these hairy, oozy creatures have their joys and pleasures, and their woes, just as every other of god's creatures, but of what their happiness consists who can tell? anyway they are good for bait, and so have use if not beauty to commend them. crabs and lobsters i could trap at any time by putting down "pots" anywhere round the island; but after a few weeks i got quite tired of them for the table, but would occasionally put down a couple of "pots" to see what of a curious nature i could catch. the crayfish, spider-crabs, and hermit crabs, gave me infinite amusement, as they are so different in their manners and customs to the ordinary crabs, and are very bellicose, going for each other tooth and nail, or rather legs and claws, in a most terrible manner. the way these little crustaceans maimed each other put me in mind of the scene in scott's "fair maid of perth," where the rival clans hew each others' limbs off with double-handed swords, so that a truce has to be called for the purpose of clearing the battle-ground of human _debris_. the crabs have the advantage over the human species, insomuch that they can reproduce a lost limb. finding i could catch a large quantity of fish of all kinds, especially rock fish, which, being new to me, i greatly admired, i set about constructing a fish pond near the house. these rock fish are a curiosity in the way of fish. they run from about six inches to two feet in length; weigh from a few ounces to a dozen pounds, and no two that i have ever caught are alike, either in colour or disposition of spots. they are spotty and speckly all over. some have copper-coloured spots, some yellow, some brown, some green, some red, and some an assortment of colours, so that one never knows what colour is coming up next. persons who are fond, when playing cards, of betting upon the colour of the trump to be turned up--black or red--would find the pastime of "backing their colour" infinitely varied, if they tried to guess the colour of the fish which would next appear. my first fish pond, ten feet by five feet, was a failure, as it was leaky; but not to be beaten i commenced another and much larger one, sixteen feet by ten feet. i selected a site close above high water-mark, and commenced digging, and in fact worked a whole day at it, intending to line it with a mixture of sand and lime, of which i had several tubs for making mortar for repairing the brickwork of my homestead; but that very evening i discovered a natural fish pond, or rather a pool, that could be turned into one by a little outlay of labour. a cleft between two large rocks, separating them by about six feet, allowed the sea at high tide to flow into a pool at the foot of an amphitheatre of rocks, which gave a basin of water, at high tide, about twenty feet across. here was a grand, natural fish pool, and i soon turned it into a comfortable home for my finny captures. first at low tide i cleared the bottom of this pool, and made it deeper. then, having previously made a huge batch of mortar, i set to work and built a wall of rock across the cleft, until i had raised it six feet high, taking great care to make it perfectly water-tight. this i strengthened by laboriously placing blocks of stone on each side, so as to prevent the sea from toppling my mortar-built wall over. as a pond it was a perfect success, except in one particular, and that was that the water in time would evaporate, or become stale; so i put my wits together and constructed a curious kind of mill pump, which worked with four wooden buckets upon an endless rope. it was jerky, but effective; that is it was effective at high water, when the tide came up to my sea-wall. at this time the mill, being placed right for the wind, would commence to work, and the buckets to ascend and descend, and each shoot its gallon of water into the pond, till sometimes it was full to the brim, and even running over. thus i could change the water at will. i was simply delighted, and fished from morning till night to stock my pool, and in a fortnight had specimens of all kinds, colours, and sizes. eels, soles, whiting, dorey, pollock, long-nose, crabs, lobsters were all there, but to my mind the big blubber-lipped rock fish were the peacocks of my pool. i was so fond of lingering by this pool to read, and smoke, and watch the fish, that i built myself a rock summer-house, and roofed it in with wood, upon which i placed a layer of mortar, and then thatched it with pine branches and braken. it was a picturesque little house, in a picturesque spot, and if i tell the truth, i believe i made a picturesque crusoe. my dress consisted, in summer, of white duck trousers, canvas shoes, coloured flannel shirt, a blue jean jacket, and broad-brimmed hat. round my waist i always wore a long red sash; it was four yards long, consequently, would encircle my waist three times and still leave some of the two ends to hang down at my side. this sash i found very useful, for i used it as a wallet or hold-all. nothing came amiss to it--tobacco, pipes, cartridges, biscuits, fruit, fishing tackle, all were tucked away in it at different or the same time, as they were so easy to get at, and left the hands free. now let us leave fish and fishing, and see in what other ways i enjoyed my solitary life. [illustration: decorative scroll] [illustration: decorative chapter heading] chapter vi. "flap" the gull--surgical operation--the gull who refused to die--taxidermy extraordinary--feathered friends--snakes. every part of the island swarmed with rabbits, in fact, it was a perfect warren, and must have contained thousands of them. i had therefore to devise some means of keeping them down, or they would so have multiplied as to eat up everything that to a rodent was toothsome, and that is _nearly_ everything green, even to the furze bushes. i had only four tooth-traps with me, and these were not nearly adequate for the number i wanted to kill, so i had recourse to wire gins. these i soon became an adept in setting, and discovered that by placing the thin wire noose close to the ground i could catch the wee rabbits, while by keeping the lower part of the noose about four inches above the turf i could secure the large ones. by practice and observation i soon learned not only the best "runs," but could tell just where they would place their feet, as they bounded up or down the steep acclivities. at times i had seventy or eighty gins set, and caught perhaps a hundred a week in the season, which i regret to say were nearly all thrown into the sea. this destruction of good food i was very sorry to cause, as it would have fed a dozen poor families; but it was a case of kill the rabbits, or starve my own animals. i chose the latter alternative, and thus had plump animals and plump rabbits too. those i retained formed food for myself, dog, pigs, and a gull i kept. the gull i must say a little about, as he became a constant companion to me when i was within the wall which surrounded the homestead. "flap," for so i christened him, was a large grey and white gull which i secured soon after coming to the island, by breaking his wing at a long shot. he tried, poor fellow, to scramble down to the sea, and swim away, but "begum" was too quick for him, and pounced upon him before he could get over the rocks. i examined the bird and found the wing bone to be broken, but otherwise the bird was not at all hurt. it then came into my mind to perform a surgical operation, and this i quickly carried out. i trimmed away all the feathers from about the wound, and then with one draw of my sharp knife cut through the flesh between the smashed bone, and quickly amputated the wing. "flap" was so fierce, and had such a formidable bill, that i had to fasten him to a post to do all this, or he might have given me a deep wound. i then bathed the stump of the wing with warm water, and bound it up in a lump of lard, and the operation was complete. i placed him in the stable and fed him with bits of fish, rabbit, and vegetable for about a week, by which time he was fairly tame; so then i took him out and fastened a leather strap round his leg, and tethered him on the grass plot in front of my house, as one would a cow, feeding him several times daily on animal food or fish. after a week of this he was so tame that he would try to get away from his peg to meet me in the morning. seeing this, i decided to release him from his stake. i did so, and the poor bird followed me about like a dog; in fact, i believe "begum" was jealous of him, for when i petted the gull he would come and thrust his great black nose into my hand, and look up to my eyes, as much as to say, "don't forget me, master!" at the end of about three weeks i ventured to take the bandage off "flap's" wing-stump, when i found, to my surprise, that it was so nearly healed as not to require further treatment from me, harry nilford, m.d. "flap's" domain was the homestead, about which he would hop and flap with his one wing in a most comical manner. if i threw down half a rabbit and called him, he would dash across the lawn at a gait that would defy description, while his voracity was wonderful to behold. he would take down half a rabbit in two or three fierce gulps, skin, bones, and flesh; and i have known him, when very hungry, to eat a whole one at a meal, which would only take a couple of minutes for him to discuss. it was simply a matter of hey presto! and his meal was consumed. if a man could eat in the same proportion, half a sheep would make a meal, while a goose or turkey would only be a snack. thank goodness, our appetites are less keen, or a fat bullock would only serve a large family for dinner, with the odds and ends left for supper. "begum" and "flap" were fast friends, and the dog would allow the bird to take many liberties with him, such as taking quietly some pretty sharp pecks if he attempted to eat a bit of "flap's" food; but on the other hand, "flap" would take "begum's" food from under his very nose without a protest of any kind from the dog, except a look out of the corner of his eye, as if he thought "what impudence!" i found sea fowl of all kinds to be very tenacious of life, especially the common large gull. one case of this occurs to me as i write. i fired at a gull and brought it down on the rocks; but it was only winged, and picking it up, i wrung its neck, and flung it down, thinking it was dead, but in a couple of minutes it gave such signs of returning animation that i put the butt of my gun on its neck, which was upon the hard pathway, and pressed with all my might. but the thing would _not_ die, so i got cross with both it and myself, with the bird for not dying and myself for causing it so much unnecessary pain. thinking to kill the bird instantaneously, i took out my penknife, and ran it (or supposed i was in the right spot) quite through the brain, so that the blade projected half an inch on the other side. just then some more gulls came within shot, and i threw the bird on the ground, and made an onslaught on the others. i dropped one, and scrambled down the cliffs for it, and at length having secured it, climbed laboriously up the steep rocks again. judge of my surprise when, purring and blowing from my exertions, just as my head rose above the ledge of the pathway where i had left the transfixed bird, i saw it rise to its feet, give a loud quah! and before i could prevent it, away it went, half flying and flopping, half running and scrambling, with my knife still in its skull, and was quickly out of sight. the different kinds of gulls visiting jethou are very numerous, and some of them very pretty. one of the finest being the swift sea swallow, with its lovely grey feathers, forked tail, and long graceful wings. another is the sea-pie, a very shapely black and white gull, which makes a noise quite peculiar to itself when hunting among the rocky inlets for its food, thus betraying its presence. whenever i killed a bird of which i did not know the name, i would fasten it up to some sticks in as life-like manner as possible, and make a water colour drawing of it, taking great care to shew every detail, so that in time i had over thirty drawings, each of which took me half a day to execute. these are now in the writer's possession, and form a pretty memento of his crusoe days. i took to making these drawings, because my attempts at taxidermy were grotesquely ludicrous; to put it plainly, they were unmitigated failures. these remarks apply to my very early attempts, for i would not have the readers think me incapable after long practice of turning out a shapely bird or a fish fair to behold. i must own that my early struggles at skinning and stuffing were certainly funny, as except from the colour of the feathers one could not tell a tern from a kentish crow after i had mangled it about for a few hours. they were wonders of natural history these specimens of mine, not altogether from my unskilfulness in handling them, but from the fact that i lacked materials to work with. during the long nights of autumn, i, to a certain extent, perfected myself in setting up specimens, but found they would not keep, as i had no arsenic to work with, using in its place a disinfectant which was not a preservative, consequently my specimens began to get mouldy and to smell high, and this prevailing mustiness brought them to an untimely end, or at least the greater portion of them. thinking a day in the sunshine and fresh air might improve them, i took them all out of the house, and carried them a few at a time down to the small lawn, as it was nice and open, placing them promiscuously down on the green sward; and a funny lot they looked. fish of all kinds, condition, and colors, and birds in all positions, natural and unnatural; the chamber of horrors at madame tussaud's waxworks was a pleasant sight in comparison to my collection, at least that was the impression i gleaned from "begum" and "flap," both of whom seemed perfectly mad at seeing such an array of scarecrows on their favourite playground. it was a lovely mild day, and i spent best part of it at la fauconnaire, rabbit and gull shooting, bringing home for my day's sport as many as i could fairly carry. leaving them in the storehouse i fed "eddy," and proceeded to perform the same office for the goat and pigs, but they were nowhere to be seen. after a fair amount of searching i gave them up for the time, and proceeded to take in my stuffed wonders, but alas, the pigs and goat had been before me, for in the morning i had not properly latched the lawn gate, and they had got in and created awful havoc. many of my specimens the pigs had actually eaten, others they had disjointed and mangled in such a manner as to be perfectly useless, while what they had not fallen foul of my quixotic goat had, by spiking them with her single horn, till she had had the satisfaction of knocking the stuffing out of them. what was left of my most magnificent collection now looked as if a charge of dynamite had played havoc with it. thus my friends and the world in general were prevented from gazing upon one of the most curious collections of birds, beasts, and fishes that have ever been stuffed (with whatever was handiest) since the art of taxidermy was introduced. the stormy petrel during rough weather used to be a frequent visitor to the perchã©e channel, skimming just above the dark waves so close to the surface, as to appear to walk up a wave, rise above its crest, and then walk down into the valley of water on the opposite side. i shot several specimens, two of which i stuffed, but they were both eaten by those horrid pigs. oyster-pickers were quite plentiful, and i quickly discovered that they might also aptly be termed limpet-pickers, for they seemed to take these shell fish as their staple food. the _modus operandi_ of feeding is to pounce down upon a rock which the receding tide has left bare, and with a single sharp blow with its beak, detach a limpet, and turning it mouth upward, pick out the fish at its leisure. if it failed to detach the limpet at once it would go on to another, knowing that when once disturbed the limpet requires great force to detach it. oysters lie in deep waters where they are inaccessible to these birds, so whence is their name derived? then there were various kinds of divers, the principal of which class was the cormorant, greatly resembling a half-starved black swan, that is, it had a longer and thinner and less graceful body; but in many points it was superior to the swan, especially in its flying and diving powers, and in its quickness of action. its head appears never to be still, but constantly bobbing and turning from side to side, as if saying, "did you ever catch a cormorant asleep?" knowing that the chinese train these birds to catch fish, i endeavoured to induce one to come to me, and serve his apprenticeship as a fisherman, but to no purpose. it was just as well i could not catch one, for i find they must be trained from their young days to the art, as they are intractable in their grown-up wildness, and i was thus spared a great deal of unnecessary trouble and irritability of temper. although i had a store of simple medicines with me, i scarcely ever required to open the case. once and once only, i felt poorly for a whole week, but that i fancy was attributable to fruit and the heat. although not well, i thoroughly enjoyed a whole lazy week, most of which i spent by the side of my fish pool, studying the habits of my finny comrades in captivity. some of the rock fish became so tame that they would rise to the surface when i dropped crumbs of biscuits on the water, and i verily believe if i had had the patience, i might have taught them to feed from my fingers. sometimes for a treat i would bring "flap" and place him near the water, and he seemed to enjoy looking at the denizens; but they were all too big for him to gobble, or he would have made an aldermanic dinner of some of them. i occasionally saw a snake, but always of the harmless, blindworm variety. of this species i caught two and admired them, but i did not make pets of them as i did of nearly everything else i could lay hands on. one big fellow nearly two feet long i threw into the sea, thinking to rid the island of at least one snake; but to my surprise he swam ashore on the surface of the water as quickly as he could have progressed on dry land. he was a veritable sea-serpent, although a small specimen. there were also two kinds of lizards of which i do not know the name, but they were only small fellows, and may be what are called "efts." they would sun themselves on the warm rocks, and on being disturbed dart into some cranny till danger was past. they ran up and down rocks which were nearly perpendicular, and were very amusing in their rapid movements. i often thought as i lay in my hammock how i should have liked a squirrel or two to be climbing about the branches above me; but one is never contented with what is allotted them. probably had i possessed a squirrel or two, i should have longed for a few monkeys, and having them, should have wished for something else. altogether i was perfectly contented with my lot, especially after the melancholy of the first week had worn off, except just now and again a particularly dismal feeling would assert itself, which i could not shake off; but i simply attributed this to dull weather or over exertion. it was nothing worth mentioning. my spirits are like a barometer; when the sun shines and the weather is warm i am up; when it is wet and dull i am down, and i think this is the case with many persons; in fact, i believe weather has a greater influence on our lives than we are aware of. statistics go to prove this; for instance, more marriages take place during the five months, june to september, than in the other seven colder months. from gaiety to despair,--more suicides take place at the fall of the year than at any other period. rodent slaughter commenced this chapter and suicide ends it; this puts me in mind of the marriage service, which commences "dearly" and ends with "amazement." [illustration: decorative scroll] [illustration: decorative chapter heading] chapter vii. i build a curious "box" boat--an unpleasant night at sea--my sunday service--the poem, "alexander selkirk"--its applicability to my lot. during the summer my roving propensities began to assert themselves, and i longed to go farther _afield_ over the sea. i bethought me how i might contrive myself a boat in which to venture into the offing with, as my canoe was too frail to go far from shore. i looked around to see what i could utilize, and found i had a few inch boards and plenty of rivets, nails, and screws; but after overhauling my stock i came to the conclusion that my materials would not warrant my commencing a craft of any size, so for several days i gave up the project, till one day visiting the boathouse i cast my eyes on the large tin-lined packing cases in which my goods had been packed. why not utilize these? there were four of them. three were of the same dimensions, namely, four feet long, three feet wide, and two and a half feet deep; while the fourth was three feet and a half long, two feet wide, and two and a half feet deep. that night i went to bed early, so as to have a good "think" as to how i could make a boat of these boxes, with the help of my deal boards and tools. i soon hit on a plan, and could scarcely get a wink of sleep for thinking and maturing my plans; in fact, at two a.m. i got up, dressed, and went and re-measured the cases and re-inspected them, to see if they were really eligible for my purpose. they were, and i retired to bed again perfectly overjoyed, so that i only dozed and woke continually till five a.m., when i finally arose and commenced operations in the boathouse. "begum" knew there was something in the wind, for i had little to say to him, so full was i of my scheme. i found my cases with their tin linings were quite water-tight, which was a necessary condition for keeping my craft afloat, and having prepared my tools and got my timber ready for a start, went homeward to breakfast, shooting a very fine pigeon on the way, which had probably strayed over from guernsey. here was a dinner provided for me which only required cooking. indeed, it frequently happened that at breakfast time my dinner would be flying about round the island. to help me in the description of the building of my craft i here give sketches of her construction. first i took my cases 2, 3, and 4, and firmly screwed them together, and afterwards added number 5, which was not so wide by six inches, but still served admirably for a stern. then came my first difficulty. how should i form the bows? this i got over by making another case, no. 1, of a triangular form with a bulkhead running across, to which i nailed my side timbers, so as to give them an outward curve. these streaks i put on clinker-wise--that is, overlapping, and thoroughly caulked them with oakum soaked in grease. [illustration: the yellow-boy] next, to strengthen the hull and hold everything firmly in position, i nailed a top streak along from stem to stern, so as to form a gunwale, and another at the lower edges of the cases, tarring everything as i proceeded, including myself; but as the weather was hot a pair of old pants cut off at the knee, and a ragged shirt, were my only encumbrance in the way of clothing. now i proceeded to cut down the partitions between the various sections for a depth of six inches. i then carefully caulked the tiny crack between each of these bulkheads, and turning the surplus tin over, nailed it to the wood. over these bulkheads i placed thwarts six inches wide, and then proceeded to make a keel. this i did by bolting two thicknesses of board together and cutting them down, so that it measured three inches deep at the stem and six at the stern. the fastening on of this keel gave me more trouble than anything else connected with the boat, for i had no bolts long enough to go through six inches of timber, and then through the bottom of the boat. there was only one way, and that was to make some bolts eight inches long, and this i did from some pieces of three-eight iron rod i found. nine bolts took me a whole day to make--from six in the morning till six in the evening. my anvil was a granite rock, which i had to carry on my shoulders from the beach; but it served its purpose capitally. my labours at the anvil were considerably lightened by the singing of all the appropriate songs i could think of, especially the "village blacksmith," which i think i must have worn out while making my bolts and other fastenings. i made heads to my bolts, and thrusting them through the keel, fastened them off on the inside with iron collars or burrs. to make the keel more secure i ran a strap of iron up the stern, from the heel of the keel, and screwed it in place. for the mast i made a step by crossing two pieces of board, and where they crossed cut a hole through sufficiently large to take my mast, which was a short one, being only about ten feet long. these cross pieces not only held the mast, but also greatly strengthened the bows, which felt the first and full force of the waves. then the rudder had to be made and attached, thole pins provided, and the whole concern tarred inside and out, tin and all. oars had to be made, and with these i had some little difficulty; but by steadily pegging away i at length turned out three very serviceable, if not elegant, ones. the third was in case of a breakage, for it would never do to go to sea without a spare oar, as in case of accident i might have drifted helplessly goodness knows where.[1] the bay of avranches is a large place, and as the channel islands do not lie in the direct course of ocean-going vessels, it would be extremely awkward, even on a calm day, to be alone in a boat with but one oar. i found a large roll of old sails in the loft of the boathouse, all much too large for my boat; but i selected a jib, and cut it down to form a lug-sail. this sail being discoloured, i gave it a coat of yellow ochre and boiled oil on each side, which gave it a very curious appearance. the upper strake of my boat i also painted yellow, and to finish off christened my craft the "yellow boy." the launch was a herculean task, as i had built her too high above high water-mark, and it took me nearly a day to get her down and afloat. finding i could not move her with my own bodily strength, i had to carry an anchor out and attach a block-tackle and thus, with the help of my faithful old comrade, "eddy," haul the boat gradually down below high water-mark, where i left her for the tide to rise and float her. she seemed large while i was at work upon her, but the huge bulk of creviã§hon towering up in the background dwarfed her to a cockle shell. while the tide was rising i busied myself in selecting large flat pieces of granite for ballast, and fastening them down to the floor with battens, which operation was scarcely finished when the tide came into the little cove, and in half an hour the "yellow boy" was afloat. "hurrah!" i shouted, while "begum" barked with joy. i could not refrain from taking the good fellow with me for the trial trip, for i must have someone to talk to, as i felt in such a joyful mood. it was late in the afternoon when we started off, and i had not broken my fast since dinner, so letting the boat drift on the now sluggish tide, i opened my tin provision box, and with capital appetites my dog and i fell to. the water found its way in in two or three places, but these i quickly caulked, and soon had everything water-tight. then the sail did not sit to my liking, so down it came, and having my palm and needles i soon altered it. then i shifted the ballast somewhat, and got everything square and snug. after about a couple of hours, as the tide was quite spent, i thought it was about time to turn towards home, but on looking back the islands had disappeared in the evening haze which was springing up, so turning the boat's head i guessed at the position of jethou, and hauled up the sail. there was but a breath of wind, and before half an hour of our homeward voyage was accomplished it was (with the sea fog and the approach of night) quite dark. still i kept on, not sure where i was going, as i could not see a light anywhere, till presently a steady rain set in, and then i knew we were in for a night of it. the weather was warmish, but i was so lightly clothed that i was quickly drenched to the skin. i looked eagerly for a ship's light, but not one could i see, or i would have borne down upon her and got the bearings of jethou from her skipper. i did what best i could under the circumstances, resolving never again to be led away by any new fad, so as to be oblivious to everything else, as i had been in getting my new boat into trim. it was a dreadful time for me, as i knew jethou to be surrounded by rocks on all sides, so that i had to keep a very sharp look out, for fear of running on them and getting stove in, which would probably have resulted in my death, if the rocks were submerged at high water. about what i should judge to be the middle of the night, as i sat shaking with cold with my hand on the tiller, i suddenly became aware of the presence of huge rocks right in front of me. i lowered the sail instantly and got out the oars, pulling gently to the lee side of these rocks, and with some difficulty landed and made fast my boat between two lofty pillars of granite, which rose sheer from the sea. i was dreadfully cold and could find no shelter from the rain, which had completely saturated my paltry clothing. i therefore had a dip in the sea, which appeared to me warmer than the cold rain and night air, and less likely to have bad after effects upon my constitution. oh, poor robinson crusoe! here was a pretty kettle of fish at the very first trip. how gladly would i have changed places with my donkey, who was safely under shelter, listening to the rain beating down, and saying to himself, "no work for me to-morrow!" the longest night must have an end, although i began to fear this particular one would not do so, till i was past caring whether the sun ever rose again or not. but by-and-bye the dawn began to break, and quickly spread itself over the sky, and with the light the fog dispersed slowly, and showed me a barrel upon the top of a pole perched on the highest rock of the group i was a prisoner upon, by which i knew i was on the ferriers, which lie about a short mile south-west of jethou. i climbed to the pole and took a survey, and could just make out jethou's back above the haze which still rolled silently above the still waters. down i scrambled to my boat, eager to push off and reach home, but alas, my craft was high and dry four feet above the sea, on a ledge which just held her comfortably cradled, in derision to my anxiety. "begum" lay calmly sleeping in the stern sheets. how i envied him his power of passing the dull hours away, oblivious to wet or cold. half an hour--an hour--two hours passed, and then the kindly sea had compassion on my lonely, forlorn condition, and rose and toyed with my boat, and finally lifted her and bore her safely back to my home. home! what a word after such a night! i almost fell ashore, so great was my anxiety, and so desperately hungry did i feel. my surroundings had now changed from what they were three hours since; for now i was on my island home, with the birds singing and the sun shining brightly and warmly upon me, so that i threw off my wet clothes and worked in a state of nature to get my tackle ashore, while "begum" fetched "eddy" to help me to get my craft above tide mark. good old "eddy." i felt he was indeed a friend as he came trotting down the rocky path with a regular royal salute of braying. he tugged, and i tugged, till when the boat was safely beached i felt as nearly exhausted as ever i have been in my life. i scarcely had strength to get up the path which usually i took at a run. however, i _did_ get up, and took a good nip of brandy, following it with some solid refreshment, eating as i lit the copper fire and filled the copper with water. while i waited for the water to become hot, i became so drowsy that i could scarcely keep awake, and yawned till an observer might have seen the roots of my hair, such an open countenance did i present. the water (although i watched it) boiled at last, and this i poured into a big tub partly filled with cold water, and had a bath for ten minutes as hot as i could bear it, after which i hopped into bed and slept, and slept, and slept. it was eight a.m. when i went to bed, and i did not wake for fourteen hours--that is till ten p.m.; and knowing that i had slept the entire day away without a thought for my poor live stock, i turned over, resolving to be up and feed the said live stock at dawn. but when i again woke the sun was high above the horizon, and up i jumped, or tried to, but found that i was very stiff and sore all over from my night adventure. as i walked about and worked, feeding my animals, i gradually felt better, especially after a hearty breakfast, of which i stood much in need, after twenty-four hours' fast. after this adventure i was very careful not to go out again without protection from the weather in the shape of a good thick coat and sou'wester, beside which i always put a tin of biscuits and a two-pound tin of preserved meat in the lockers near the stern, in case of emergency, and more than once i had to break bulk when a trip unexpectedly kept me out longer than i anticipated. i now had all i could desire in the way of comforts and engagements, and not an idle day did i spend, except sundays, upon which day i never did a stroke of work nor fired a shot. even my rabbit gins were neglected that day. all i did was to feed my animals, walk or doze in my hammock and meditate, and this to me was a great enjoyment. when the wind was westerly i could hear the guernsey church bells ringing for service, and when they ceased i knew it was eleven o'clock, and regulated my watch accordingly; that being done i always spent the time between that hour and twelve in going through the church service for the day, and the regulation three hymns, with one or two added, and a chapter or two from the bible in place of a sermon. then i felt comfortable, and contented, and without fear. one sunday afternoon, swinging in my hammock in the grove reading a book of poetry, i came across those beautiful verses by cowper, entitled, "alexander selkirk," and could not but think how true they were to my own lot in many points; in fact, few persons reading the poem _could_ appreciate it as i did in my solitude, with nought but the sea and sky with their teeming creatures around me. the first half of the first verse fitted me capitally, and i could not get it out of my head all day; it tickled my fancy: "i am monarch of all i survey, to my right there is none to dispute; from the centre all round to the sea, i am lord of both fowl and of brute." in the second verse occur the lines: "i am out of humanity's reach, i must finish my journey alone; never hear the sweet music of speech- i start at the sound of my own." certainly it was very seldom i heard a human voice, even in the distance, sometimes not for weeks together; but as to starting at the sound of my own, well, that is not at all correct. probably if my friends could have heard the voice of either "eddy" or myself, when in full song, _they_ would have had a _start_, if not a severe shock to the system. again: "society, friendship, and love, divinely bestowed upon men; oh, had i the wings of a dove, how soon would i taste you again!" dove's wings would not have borne my thirteen stone weight. perchance the giant wings of the albatross would have been more practicable, if less poetical, and with these appendages i might have been tempted to have a peep at my friends in england, despite the supremely ridiculous figure i should have cut in the air, and the chance i should have stood of being shot as a very _rara avis_. fancy me lighting down on our old thatched-roof house, and frightening everyone out of their seven senses, including my darling priscilla, who, if she were not too frightened, would certainly bring me down with a charge of no. 4 (chilled) shot. the next verse is nearly true of my state in its entirety: "religion! what treasure untold resides in that heavenly word! more precious than silver and gold, or all that this earth can afford; but the sound of the church-going bell these valleys and rocks never heard; never sighed at the sound of a knell, or smiled when a sabbath appeared." it is scarcely true to say that the rocks _never_ hear the sound of the church-going bell, for with a westerly breeze the bells can be heard quite plainly, and i have even heard a dog bark at that distance, which shows how distinctly, and to what a great distance sound will travel over water. if rocks have ears they must occasionally have been ravished by my rendering of sankey and moody's hymns. if they have a memory they must have learnt several of them by heart; in fact, have been so familiar with them as to desire a change for something secular. they never applauded me, but when the heavens spoke with thunder they clapped their granite hands till they cracked again. the last verse hits me again--quite a bull's eye: "but the sea fowl is gone to her nest, the beast is laid down in his lair; even here is a season of rest, and i to my cabin repair. there's mercy in every place, and mercy, encouraging thought! gives even affliction a grace, and reconciles man to his lot." yes, i nightly had to repair to my cabin, and in the wet season had my cabin to repair; but i made it so cosy, that like the last line, "it reconciled me to my lot." oh, crusoe! how i would have loved to have shared juan fernandez with thee! what a friday i would have been, and what enjoyment i should have discovered in everything--except black man killing! but even that i should have taken my part in it if it came to the question "kill or be killed." [illustration: decorative scroll] footnote: 1: it so happened that only a few years since, a young lady, taking a row after church one sunday evening, lost an oar overboard and drifted out to sea. in the morning she was picked up (being then quite out of sight of land) by a vessel bound for canada, and actually taken to newfoundland, from whence in about a month she arrived home safely, much to the joy of her sorrowing friends, who had given her up as drowned. [illustration: decorative scroll] [illustration: decorative chapter heading] chapter viii. a trip to st. sampson's harbour--a horrid porcine murder--a voyage round sark--nearly capsized--trip round guernsey--the pepper-box--curiosity of tourists. from time to time i made many improvements in the "yellow boy," and learnt her capabilities, so that in time i took quite long cruises as far as guernsey, and even to sark. it will be remembered that two of the conditions my father imposed upon me, were that i should not land on any other island nor speak to anyone under any pretence whatever, and these rules i rigorously carried out. many a time passing boatmen hailed me, but a wave of the hand and my finger pointed to my output tongue was the only answer they received, consequently i was called the "dumb man of jethou," or the "yellow boy," and as such and by no other name many of the fishermen knew me. those who did not know my history pitied me as a kind of voiceless castaway or semi-sane being. my long trips were sometimes undertaken on calm moonlight nights: one, i remember, was to st. sampson's harbour, guernsey. i started about three a.m., and reached the harbour before four o'clock, so that i had a good look around the little haven, and at the shipping before anyone was astir. i moored to the cable of a big brigantine which was lying alongside the wharf ready for her cargo of granite for london. curb stones, blocks for paving, and broken metal for macadam roads are all shipped here to the amount of several thousand tons weekly, so that the granite quarrying and dressing give occupation to about 2,000 men, women, and children. granite working and fruit growing are the two great industries of the island, which seems to me to be composed principally of two extremely different materials--granite and glass; at any rate it is not the place for stone throwing. as i swung on the cable of the big ship, i made myself a cup of coffee; for i always carried a small lamp stove with me, so that i could cook the fish i caught fresh from the sea, or make myself a cup of tea or coffee to wash my meal down with. i have since found, that within the memory of persons still alive, guernsey was nearly cut off from vale parish by an arm of the sea, which flowed over the salt marshes at high tide, so that all communication was cut off between the two parts of the island except by one little bridge and the ferry boat. the bridge was about 380 yards west of st. sampson's church; but at the present day pleasant meadows, houses, and roads take the place of the broad stream of salt water and marshes, which formerly made guernsey and vale separate islands twice a day, at the time of high tide. just before five o'clock when heads began to peep over bulwarks, and men to appear on the quay, passing to their work, i thought it time to be off, as my strange craft would be sure to attract attention, which i did not court, so i packed up and made snug for sailing. i was only just in time, for a bearded face looked over the bulwarks of the brigantine, and hailed me with a "good morning, mate!" but i only pointed to my mouth and ears as i unmoored. when i looked up again as i pushed off there were half a dozen merry faces peering over the side at me, and i could see they were surprised at the "yellow boy" and her dumb skipper. as i sculled out of the harbour i could hear their remarks and laughter, despite my deaf-mutism, and would gladly have had a chat with them if it had not been for my "rules," for these were the first human voices i had heard close by me for nearly four months. away i scudded, taking my way across the little russel, past the stone fort, with its one pop-gun on top, which is supposed to dominate the channel, standing as it does on a rocky islet midway between guernsey and herm. if a modern warship meant business, the bellicose gunners of this little inkpot-looking fort would have what the french call a _mauvais quart d'heure_. arrived home about seven i had all the day before me. one of our poets says, "the only way to lengthen our days, is to take a piece off of the night, my boys!" this i used frequently to do, but always took care to take _my_ piece off the night, so as to _prefix_ the day instead of making it a kind of baccanalian _appendix_. i have sometimes had my day twenty hours long, from two in the morning till ten at night; but with this i used afterwards to take an antidote in the shape of ten or eleven hours' sleep. on such occasions i always gave my animals a double allowance of food, and if they were improvident enough to consume it, as if it were carnival time, or a period of some great feast, that was their look out, and after their feast came a fast, which at worst only gave them an increased appetite, and did them no real harm. speaking of appetite and eating, i must describe my first pig-killing. i felt that i required pork, and the more i thought of it the more i was convinced that i _must_ have it, although a murder had to be committed before i could have it either roast, boiled, or fried. very well, what easier! there were the two pigs, each about one hundred and forty pounds weight; all i had to do was to kill one. of course i would set about it at once; but upon reflection i became aware that some courage was required, and that i was totally ignorant of the work before me. however, i sharpened a long knife and went and had a look at the pigs, and the more i looked the less i liked my task; so much so, that after half an hour i decided that i would have tinned mutton for dinner--the pork would be too fresh, and perhaps it might be a dull day to-morrow, and i should want something to do! so the pig received a respite. next morning when i awoke and considered how and when i should kill the pig, i made the resolve that come what might "that day the pig should die." after breakfast i again sharpened the knife, as if it had become blunt again in the night, and got up a razor edge on the weapon, and once more proceeded to the stye. i selected my victim, and got one of my legs over the wall of the enclosure; but then my heart failed me, it seemed as if i was about to slay an old friend; indeed, they _were_ old friends, those two piggies, and i had had many a chat with them, in fact, could almost understand their language of grunts. how was i going to secure my victim before giving the _coup de grace_? should he not be offered up on a stool? if so, i had not one to use; but an idea struck me, and that idea i adopted. over the stye, about ten feet from the ground, the limb of a walnut tree stretched across, and my idea was to drop a line over the bough and make it fast round the porker's snout, haul him up on his hind legs, and bury my knife up to the hilt in his throat about where i thought his heart was situated. away i went and procured my cord, threw the end over the limb, made a noose, and got it in the pig's mouth and over his nose; then i hauled away amid the most blood-curdling shrieks imaginable. i got him on his hind legs, and then for the first time, as i took the knife from my belt, i knew the full meaning of the word "coward." but the deed had to be done, it would never do to let the animal die of old age while i wanted meat; so, setting my teeth, plunge went the knife, and at the same time in my eagerness to step back, down i fell backward over the other pig, who turned and bit me in the thigh, and then as he rushed away went full butt into his comrade, which broke the rope, and down came the bleeding animal on top of me. i was in an awful state of filth, and as i rose they both came at me again; in fact i might have been seriously hurt had i not used my knife freely on the already-wounded pig. luckily the other ran away, or it might have been serious for me. in falling a second time i went down with my leg under me, and could not rise; but i drove the knife into the animal's breast with all my might, and then, seizing him round the body with my arms, forced the hilt further in with my chest, but instead of killing the beast, to my horror the point came out of his back as he freed himself and walked away. i rose and got out of the stye as nimbly as i possibly could, and sat down to try and find my face through the accumulation of blood and filth, which having done, i peeped over the stye wall, and found the pig still alive; so, to end the poor thing's misery and my own, i took up my gun and shot him dead. what a relief it was to see him lie stone still in an instant. i vowed never to attempt a porcine murder again, and while i was on the island the other pig had a good time of it, for as governor of jethou i abolished capital punishment, and if a pig's years were as many as methuselah's, he might enjoy them all before i should again attempt to put a period to them. from assassination to boat sailing is a long stride but at least a change. i performed two long voyages in my little craft; at least they seemed long ones to me at the time, considering the dangers of navigation in these rocky, swift seas. [illustration: a porcine murder.] one trip was to sark, which lies about six miles south-east of jethou. i selected a beautiful day in august for this trip, and started at daylight, about four a.m., well provisioned, and with "begum" to accompany me, for somehow i always felt safer with him beside me. a light south-west wind was blowing, so we reached sark by six a.m., and mooring the boat at the foot of the coupã©e, in a bay called grand grã©ve, i prepared coffee, and had a very leisurely breakfast, wondering at man's capacity for stowage; but that is due to the salt breeze which never yet put a man's liver wrong. after enjoying the rocking in the bright warm sunshine, and watching the tiny people crossing the coupã©e (like the little men crossing a bridge on a willow-patterned plate), three hundred feet overhead, off i started again. i kept about two hundred yards from the precipitous sides of the island, steering so close to the rock moie de la bretagne, which rises ninety feet above the sea, that i touched it as we (my boat, dog, and i) glided by. next, into the romantic little bay of port gorey (just a lovers' paradise), where i let "begum" have a run ashore while i sketched. here are situate the mines which were abandoned many years ago as a dismal failure, leaving as a legacy to those fond of sketching some ruinous cottages and huge chimney shafts, which look down on the little bay of gorey, as gog and magog look down on the visitors to the london guildhall. leaving gorey we had a good look at the rock called l'etac de sark with its satellites, and gave them a wide berth, for their tooth-like appearance is not at all pleasant when but an inch of wood lies between one and a watery grave. l'etac is the highest isolated rock round the island, rising nearly two hundred feet above low water. [illustration: rocks at south end of sark.] to save time, instead of sweeping the bays we made a straight line, so as to pass between point derrible and la couchã©e, and quickly arrived off what one may suppose the most picturesque spot in the channel isles--creux harbour, with its stumpy little breakwater pier and cave cutting which gives entrance to the island. the half-dozen fishermen on the quay gave us a cheer as we passed, in answer to a wave from my yellow cap. on our right were the rocky islets, rising about one hundred feet above the sea, called la burons, and i passed just in time to see a sheep fall with a plunge and splash into the sea, shot by a man in a boat. this appeared to be the local way of slaughtering the sheep which are put on the rocks to crop the sparse herbage which grows above high-water mark. after a fortnight among the rocks sheep will get so agile and surefooted, that a man has no chance with them in running or climbing, hence the rifle has to be employed to obtain mutton. after passing grand moie (one hundred and seventeen feet)--there are no other rocks of any magnitude--so keeping well out i stripped and tumbled overboard, hanging now to the stern, and then swimming alongside, but never more than a yard away, for fear a current might part my boat and me. "begum," of course, swam with me, and seemed to keep an eye on his master, for he seldom went far away from me. whenever i looked round his dear old brown eyes were upon me, as if he would say, "how are you getting on, master?" we rounded the northernmost point of sark, a rock called bec du nez, about twelve a.m., and with a fair wind ran into port jument, where we hove to for dinner; then creeping round point moie de mouton, anchored off the famous gouilot caves, and took a sketch, but could not by reason of my compact enter them. this was very annoying, for i had heard so much about them and their wonderful pools and anemonã¦. disappointedly hauling in my anchor i steered for the gouilot pass, and like a fool nearly lost myself and craft. the distance between moie de gouilot and the island of brechou is only about seventy yards, and as it was now past three o'clock, a swift tide was pouring pell-mell through the channel; this in my indolence i did not think of, and had like an ass taken a turn of the sheet round a cleat, and somehow got it jammed. away went the "yellow boy," like a shot out of a gun, and as we passed through, a big puff of wind came round the end of brechou, and nearly took the mast out before i could let go the sheet. another two or three inches more and we must have capsized, and it was only due to the boat being rather heavily laden with cooking apparatus, gun, and cartridges, extra provisions, and the weight of "begum" (eighty pounds), who was fortunately lying to windward, that we did not heel right over. as it was we were all afloat in each compartment, so i ran into the beautiful bay of havre gosselin and anchored. it took an hour to bale out and sponge dry and put everything in order for the run home. after rightsiding, and when over my tea, i cast my eyes upon the beautiful precipitous vale which comes down from a height of about one hundred and fifty feet to the sandy shore. it was an exquisite sight in the full glow of the western sun, and would make a lovely theme for a canvas. it was an emerald valley, through the trees of which the sun glinted and made splendid contrasts of light and shade so beloved by the artist, while at the top of the vale, hung, or appeared to hang, half a dozen fishermen's cottages, such as the aforesaid artist frequently looks for in vain; but here they are, and perhaps my artistic friends may thank me for pointing out these delightful "bits" to them. i lingered as long as prudence would allow at this enchanting spot, and crept along the lee of brechou island to get a peep at its harbour or port, and soon found it, facing due west, a snug little haven enough in calm weather; but the very thought of trying to get into it in a heavy sea was enough to make one shudder. a steep path leads up from the beach to a farmhouse, which stands high upon the island; it is the _only_ habitation in the place. this island is probably larger than jethou, but being so near havre gosselin is not so lonely, as help may very quickly be summoned in case of accident or illness. how i should have loved to pay the old farmer and his family a visit to compare notes with him; but it could not be, and even if i had seen him it is doubtful if i could have understood him, as doubtless he spoke sarkoise french, and with that language i was totally unacquainted. still, we might have had what the indians call a "pow-wow," and fraternised to some extent if only by signs. at a little past six away we steered for home, but with a head wind and rather choppy sea, so there was no help for it but to tack, which made a long trip of it; but to make it short to the reader we reached home about nine p.m., tired, wet, and hungry, for it began to drizzle at sundown. still, i never enjoyed a trip better than this memorable one of about twenty-five miles, although i was glad after supper to lay my head down on my pillow (and dream it all over again). at the risk of wearying my readers i must tell them of a trip i took round guernsey about a month later. "begum" went with me, that was now a matter of course, for directly the boat was shoved off, he would jump in and take his seat as if he were pilot: there was no getting him out again. well provisioned and provided for casualties, we started at the somewhat late hour of six a.m., and in an hour made the land opposite st. sampson's harbour, and peeped in on passing, so as to see the busy scene of granite trimming, breaking, and loading, which goes on here from sunrise to sunset all the year round. i could plainly hear the detonations as shots were fired in the quarries, and the dull rumble of the stone, as great masses of granite, which have been unmoved since the creation, were rent asunder and toppled into the quarry below. vale castle and bordeaux harbour, where i anchored, look picturesque from whatever points they are seen, whether from land or sea, and two hours quickly glided by as i sketched the lovely little bits of scenery around me. my plan was to take about half an hour for each sketch, to get the general outline and feeling of color, so that on my return i had plenty to occupy me on a rainy day. the next point of interest was a little rocky island just past bordeaux, called hommet paradis, which is the scene of the death of victor hugo's hero, gilliatt, as related in "the toilers of the sea." he creates a splendid hero, and in the last chapter makes him commit suicide in an impossible manner. he causes his hero to stand in the sea, so that the tide rises up to his feet, his knees, his waist, his shoulders, till, still watching the vessel which bears his love from him through his own stupid act, nothing but his head remains. then the tide continues to rise, and as the vessel vanishes on the horizon, "the head of gilliatt disappears. nothing was visible now but the sea." surely he might have left a lock of hair or a sigh to mark the spot where he disappeared. i have tried on even a very calm day to stand as hugo's hero did, and let the tide rise around me, but find the thing an impossibility. the motion of the rising tide would lift one off their feet long before the water rose above their shoulders, and as to making the man stand _still_ and drown, why the idea is ludicrous. but as hugo created his hero, why should he not be allowed to destroy him as he likes? the book (except the last chapter) is an exquisite piece of word painting, but i always wish he had made a happy end of his hero. i felt this so much when i read it on jethou (for the third or fourth time) that i actually re-wrote the last chapter for my own edification, and made gilliatt marry dã©rnchette willy-nilly, so that everything ended properly, and the lovers "lived happily ever after." north guernsey (called parish) is very uninteresting, in fact, from the sea it looks a perfectly flat wilderness or desert, and i was glad when the "yellow boy" glided into the deep clear blue water of grand havre, where we moored for lunch. here an incident occurred which might have caused me to go ashore against my wish. while peppering some fish i was eating, the lid came off my little tin box, and the contents were strewn thickly on my food. some of the condiment i scooped back into the box, and then gave a mighty puff to blow the rest off my plate, when, unluckily blowing against the wind, some of it blew into my eyes, causing me exquisite pain for some time, necessitating my rubbing them. had i remembered the spanish proverb, "never rub your eyes but with your elbows," i should have saved myself a lot of needless pain, for they became quite inflamed. i bathed them first in tepid water and afterwards in cold, and then sat down in the bottom of the boat with a wet handkerchief over them for an hour. this did them much good, but still they felt very hot and inflamed. i could only just see to pick my way among the shoals of rocks along this west coast, and consequently made very slow progress. saline, cobo, and vazon bays were all sailed slowly through, and very pretty they were; but it now dawned upon me that i should not see jethou to-night, as it was already approaching the gloaming of the day. lowering the sail i put out the sculls, and paddled back to a little inlet i had noticed near cobo bay, called albecq cove, a rocky little inlet, but nicely sheltered from the south-west wind, then gently blowing. here i made all snug for the night; put on my kettle to boil water for tea, while with the sail i made a kind of awning to roof in the boat should it come on to rain, and made myself generally comfortable. at nine p.m. i went to sleep, and at four a.m. was up again getting ready for a start. my eyes felt nearly well again, but still rather weak, so, stripping, i jumped overboard, and had a swim and dive, then dressed, and after a cup of coffee felt no more of the eye soreness. between lihou island and the shore i moored in shallow water to make a sketch of the remains of what are said to have once been a priory, standing on the island, and which have since been used as a manufactory of iodine, although it is now discontinued. when my sketch was nearly completed, i became suddenly aware, by reason of the cessation of motion, that my craft was aground. sure enough so it was, for the tide had left me on the causeway (laid bare at low tide), which serves as a means of communication with the shore for the family who occupy the only house on the eighteen-acre island. i jumped up and seized the oars, and pushed with main and utmost might, but the "yellow boy" refused to budge, and i was in a quandary. the tide would not float me for another three or four hours, so to wait would spoil my whole morning, and if i stepped overboard and pushed off, should i not be breaking my contract by landing? i sat down a few minutes and held council with myself, and came to the conclusion that to stand in a foot of water was not _landing_, so over i jumped, and by dint of a great deal of pushing, hauling, perspiring, and the use of interjections (not profane, for i never use a bad word), i got her off into deep water, and jumped in, resolving never to anchor again in fleet water with a falling tide. from lihou i made a bee-line to the hanois lighthouse, which stands about a mile from the shore, and forcibly reminds one of the longship light off land's end, cornwall. i passed so close that the two men who were standing on the rocks with a tub between them doing their week's washing, asked me ashore; but i made a gurgling noise in my throat, and pointed to my ears and mouth as i passed on. i meant them to understand by this that i was a deaf mute, but they evidently took me for a lunatic, as i could hear by their remarks. rounding pleinmont point, upon which stands the dreary, solitary stone house mentioned so frequently in hugo's "toilers of the sea," i caught the south breeze which was now blowing very fresh, and having a lea shore on my left, i had to give it rather a wide berth till i came to la moye point, where i turned into petit bo bay for my mid-day meal, that being somewhat sheltered from the wind. it is a lovely little haven, and so i found icart, moulin-huet, and fermain bays, with their titanic surroundings. while moored in fermain bay admiring the beautiful scene, the wooded slopes of the environing hills, the grand rocks, the pretty little semicircular stretch of yellow sandy beach, the puny little martello tower, and other items of interest, i discovered that while my surroundings were interesting _me_, that i was also interesting my surroundings, for i found i was gradually being surrounded by boats. these contained pleasure parties, to whom the fishermen had evidently told the story of my crusoe life, and they were therefore anxious to get a near view of me and my curious craft, while "begum" came in for his share of attention also. some of the people wished to speak to me, but i up anchor, and with my usual dumb appeal to my ears and mouth tried to get away, but there was so little wind under the great cliffs that my progress was very slow, so i had to sit, tiller and sheet in hand, while my tormentors said their say, to me and about me, in french, german, and english. one young lady, when she found i was dumb to her enquiries, made a confidant of "begum," and told him how she would like to see over crusoe's island, as she called jethou, but all to no purpose, for, like his master, the dog was dumb also, though not deaf. i should have bubbled over with pleasure to show the damsel my island and resources; but all i could do was to raise my yellow cap, and expand my mouth horizontally across my face, to signify my approval of her attention to _my dog_! as the boat crept out from the headland of fermain bay my yellow sail began to draw, and very soon i left my pursuers behind. i had become so used to my queer yellow boat and its yellow sail and flag, that i had long ceased to see anything peculiar in it; but of course to other eyes my craft and its crew were a source of speculation and surprise. after this i never went near guernsey again during the day-time. i made a straight run for home now, but somehow felt rather melancholy, and could not get the young lady's face out of my mind. i felt somewhat depressed to think i was fleeing from my fellow-men, as if i had committed some grave offence and could not face them; but when once my foot touched jethou's shore (about seven p.m.) my thoughts and melancholia vanished. there i was, home again, patting "eddy's" back, and pulling his long ears, and feeding the pig, and milking the goat, getting ready my tea, and finally stretching my weary legs to take out the kinks, which a couple of days in an open boat will put into any man's limbs. [illustration: decorative scroll] [illustration: decorative chapter heading] chapter ix. harvest operations--explore la creux derrible, and nearly lose my life--crusoe on crutches--an extraordinary discovery--kill a grampus--oil on troubled waters--make an overflow pump. after my boating adventures i began to think it was high time i should spend a week or two ashore, looking after my crops and the estate generally. it was now september, and my apples and pears were ripe, and so were the lovely mulberries. the giant tree was a sight to behold, with its bushels of red, purple, and blackish-ruby fruit. i might have gathered enough fruit and vegetables to have supplied a small community throughout the season, so prolific is the soil, and encouraging to vegetation the air. my potatoes turned out remarkably well--free from blemish, and of good flavour. i must have had two or three tons, and went through the labour of digging them and picking up all the tiny ones, as if i expected or feared a famine. the pig's winter food was assured, at all events. [illustration: the main path of the island.] long previous to this i had cut and gathered my hay crop, which was to form the chief sustenance for "eddy," and the goat, "corny," for the next five or six months. this i made into a neat stack close to the house, and thatched thickly with brakes, beside which i covered it with tarpaulin, and girded it about with old chain-cable to prevent its being blown away: also i guarded the base with a surrounding of wire-netting to preserve it from the rabbits. the crop i took most pleasure in was the barley, which i looked upon as my legitimate harvest; the other crops seeming to be more like gardening than real harvest work. i cut every handful with a reaping hook, which took a long time; but as i had not a scythe this was my only way of cutting it down. true, the channel islands mode of harvesting the barley is to pull it up by the roots, a handful at a time, knocking the soil off the roots upon the toe of the boot; but this seemed to me such an un-english method that i would have nothing to do with it. after it had lain to dry for three or four days i called "eddy" and my solid-wheeled cart into requisition, and took it, load by load, down the rocky path to the store-house, where i placed it all safely away in the upper chamber. the pathway was so narrow in places that the deviation of a few inches would have caused donkey, load, and cart, to be precipitated scores of feet down the abrupt slope into the sea beneath. to avoid this catastrophe i had to take a pick-axe and shovel, and devote a whole day to widening it in parts, making this, the main path to the top of the island, nowhere less than four feet wide. i rode home atop of the last load, and at my own door drank my own health, with three cheers for everything and everybody, to which "flap," the gull gave a kind of croak, by way of approval to my sentiments. while my harvest was in progress i met with an adventure which might have terminated the harvesting and my existence at the same time. it was a boisterous day. i was tired of digging potatoes, for my back ached, and i wanted a rest. the cotills being near the awful crater-like mouth of la creux derrible, i thought i would go and explore it, and find out in my own way, all about it; so, dropping my occupation, i wandered slowly down the zig-zag, bracken-hemmed path, lit my pipe, and prepared myself for laziness for an hour. when i am lazy i like to be _thorough_. i cannot bear to be half at work and half at play; it is neither one thing nor another. so on this occasion i strolled quietly down the pathway, which zig-zags seven or eight times before it ends abruptly on the brow of a little cliff facing la fauconnaire. i scrambled down the cliff, across the beach, and over the rocks which form a barrier to the entrance of the cavern leading to the creux. i noticed that the tide allowed an entrance to be effected, so i climbed in over the gigantic boulders with which the floor of the black cavern is covered, and soon found myself standing on the pebbly floor of the chasm, looking up at its perpendicular sides, and admiring the various ferns, weeds, and flowers which grew in beauty from its many clefts and fissures. then i saw something move in a hole near my feet, and found it to be a wounded rabbit, which had apparently fallen down the shaft from one of the little ledges a hundred and fifty feet above. the timid little fellow did not attempt to run away, so, picking him up, i examined him and discovered that both his fore legs were broken, and it quite hurt me to see the pitiful look he gave with his bright, prominent, gazelle-like eyes. i fondled the wounded animal, and looking upward intently, presently saw other little rodents hopping round little ledges near the top, which did not appear, from where i stood, to be so wide as their bodies; but there they were, and although i waited expectantly for a long time for a prospective dinner, no others fell upon me. i should have been afraid to shoot at them had i had my gun, for fear of detaching pieces of rock, which, falling from such a height, might have crushed my skull in. seeing it was hopeless to think of saving the poor little bunny's life, i gave him the "regulation stretch," and quieted him for ever. it seemed strange that i should have cared for this one's life, and would have saved it if i could, when i was daily trapping and shooting them in all directions. i think it was his plaintive look that did it, or the consciousness that i was a superior being, and had his little life (to a certain extent) at my command, just as our father above has mine; but anyway, in his wounded state i knew that death was his best friend. looking round i at once realized what death meant--death in a terrible form--not to a rabbit, but _death to myself_--and for a moment i felt paralyzed; for there was the sea creeping in upon me, not ten yards away. the roof of the cavern through which i had to pass, did not appear far above the water at the outer mouth. as i gazed along the tunnel-like aperture the waves continually broke, sending spray to the roof, shutting out much of the daylight seaward, though from the opening above me the sunlit sky shed its light upon me. could i find a means of climbing up the perpendicular sides of my prison, if only a few feet? no, i could not see a spot where even a squirrel could ascend. what was to be done? the outlet was now filled to the roof with the incoming tide, which here has a rise of from twenty-five to thirty feet from low to high tide. the sea reached my feet, and to my excited imagination felt like the fingers of death trying to clutch me. but i am not one to give up without a big struggle, and i made up my mind to attempt to swim round and round the opening, _like a rat in a pail_, if it came to the worst; but although i am a good swimmer, i doubted my ability to keep afloat for three or four hours, with a heavy sea pouring into the circular cavity, which would presently be filled with a whirlpool of seething, foaming water. i should be knocked and buffeted from side to side against the adamantine rocks till i was dead, then tossed and played with till the tide ran out and carried my body into the vast ocean beyond, as food for fishes. my friends would never hear of me again, and my animals on the island would starve till--yes, why not try? my soliloquy was cut short by noticing a crag project beyond the others about ten or twelve feet from the ground. why could i not throw my doubled silk sash over it, and haul myself up? i would try. the sea was now up to my knees, and was beginning to exert a rotary motion, which, as the tide rose, would increase in velocity. so off came my waist-sash, and after a few attempts it lodged over the boss of rock; then to strengthen it i twisted it like a double rope, and carefully hauled myself up it, hand over hand, till i grasped the protruding rock; but as it only jutted out a few inches there was no possibility of sitting upon it, so i gradually worked my way up by clutching at any inequalities in the surrounding rock till i got one knee upon it, and there i hung, with my fingers bent over a fissure like fish-hooks. how i envied the rabbits overhead, who occasionally dislodged the _detritus_ of rock, which fell upon me. what would i not have given to be back on the ledges of the cotills, digging potatoes! but there i was, like a rat in a trap, with no means of egress. in a short time my fingers became cramped, and the sharp rock cut my knee to such an extent that the perspiration broke out clammily on my forehead, as i realised that in a few minutes i must loose my hold and drop into the whirling water beneath, unless i could find some other means of supporting myself. i looked about, and presently found a small hole for my right hand--one deep enough to get a fairly good hold upon--and putting my fingers into this, i gently let my left hand glide down the rock and bring up the sash on that side. this i placed in my mouth, gently changed hands and hauled up the right end of the sash, then, after many attempts, with my mouth and right hand i managed to tie a knot in it so as to form the sash into a short endless band. this i dropped down, and putting my foot in the loop, had a somewhat secure support. [illustration: la creux derrible.] there i hung for about three hours, till the tide only left about two feet of water on the upper part of the floor of the cavern. when i attempted to descend i found i could not straighten my right leg because of the constant pressure for such a long time upon the knee-joint, so i waited till the cave floor was almost bare, and then let myself _fall_ down as gently as possible. i was not hurt by the fall, but could not stand, as my knee would not allow itself to be straightened. i sat down for an hour till the tide allowed me to hop out in great pain. oh, how glad i was to be out of that dreadful place; and even in my crippled state i rejoiced at my liberty! upon getting to the foot of the cotills cliff, i whistled for my faithful "begum," but no "begum" came, so i sat down and rested, and whistled, and whistled again, till presently away he came tumbling down the breech in the cliffs, to my great delight. after a bit i despatched him to fetch "eddy," and while that worthy was on his way to my help, managed, with great exertion and risk, to scale the cliff. "eddy" bore me up the zig-zag, and home by the lower path, and thankful indeed was i to get there. i bathed my knee, and did all i could for it, but it was many days before i fully recovered the use of the limb; in fact, for three days i used a crutch, which helped me along famously. fancy a crusoe on crutches! after this adventure i made up my mind that i was not born to be drowned. now, a week after my creux adventure another incident occurred which greatly influenced my career both as regards my stay on the island and my after life. this was a curious discovery i made quite by accident. it happened to be a very wet morning when i rose, and looked as if it would continue all day, so i thought i would stay indoors and tidy up my dwelling. i soon prepared my breakfast, and sat down to enjoy it, and as i and my dog were discussing it, i could not help noticing the dilapidated state of the stained and ragged wall-paper. it had probably been on many years, and i recollected that somewhere among my stores i had about a dozen rolls of new paper, so i said to myself, "why not strip the walls and re-paper the room?" good! i soon cleared the room, and with a pail of water and a brush began to soak the old paper and strip it off, when i found, to my surprise, that it was several layers thick--five at least--while underneath all was a kind of netting of some sort of linen-looking fabric. i surmised that this was to give a better adhesive power to the paste, as probably the walls might be damp, although they did not appear to be so. so i tore the various papers off the wall, till i clumsily dragged off a piece of the netting also. the netting came quite off in my hand; a circular piece, about eighteen inches across. i examined it to see what it really was, and to my amazement discovered it was a beautiful lace collar. what a curious way of putting a collar on i thought, and returned to the wall to see if it wore any other finery, and quickly discovered that the four walls were covered all over with lace of beautiful design. there were pieces of all shapes and sizes, and most of it of exquisite workmanship; so, packing it into a trunk with plenty of tobacco among it to keep away insects, i sealed it up, and stood it in a dry place for future consideration. even this curious find was not all i discovered, nor the most important, although at the time i made my second discovery i did not attach any value to it. it was this. when i came to the third side of the room, opposite the door, i came upon a sort of niche or cupboard, close up to the ceiling, which had no door, but simply a piece of lace tacked over the aperture, and then thickly papered over some seven or eight times. the opening was about ten inches high, eight inches wide, by six inches deep, and in it stood two leathern drinking cups, capable of containing about a pint each. in the first i took down was a tiny vial and three gem rings, and in the second a small roll of paper, which upon unrolling i found to be about two feet long by four inches wide. upon it, in very faded ink, was a long list of something in french. it looked like a very heavy washing bill, and i was about to throw it away when i reflected that it might tell something about the lace and the rings, so i rolled it up in a linen bandage, and put it and the other articles in my clothes box, so that some day i might get it deciphered. all this made me very excited, and i am afraid my thoughts were more on my discoveries than upon my work, for the new paper was very badly put on the walls; it was not hung perpendicularly, and had several gaping joints, which annoyed me all the time i was on the island. but i had not paper enough to recover the walls, as i used the rest for my bed-chamber; therefore it remained, a lasting memorial of my slovenliness and bad workmanship. about this time i shot a curious specimen--too large for stuffing--a grampus. i was in my boat one day fishing for whiting, when i heard a peculiar noise behind me, and looking round, saw a huge monster rise from the sea about a hundred yards off, and make straight for me. before getting to the boat he dived again and again, when i saw that it was apparently a young whale. instinctively i clutched my gun, and as the monster dived within a dozen yards of my boat i watched its rising; up he came, not twenty feet away, whereupon i let him have both barrels at the back of his head, and to my surprise he immediately turned over, belly upward, gave a shudder, and was dead. i took my prize in tow, and found on landing that it was upwards of ten feet long, and must have weighed several hundredweight, for out of the water it was perfectly unmanageable. i had to yoke "eddy" and myself together, and drag the monster above high water-mark, till i decided what to do with it. in the morning i took off the skin, which would have made excellent leather, but i had no means of tanning it, so was jettisoned. beneath the skin was a thick layer of blubber, and this i flayed off, making myself in a pretty pickle, and soon had a large pile of this reeking adipose deposit. then i brought my copper on the beach, as it was a portable one, and lighting a fire i "tryed," or boiled my blubber down and had several gallons to bottle by the end of the day. the flesh, i believe, is eatable, but it looked so dark and rich that i was afraid to cook a piece and try it. grampus is, no doubt, all very well for shipwrecked mariners, but as i had plenty of other food the carcase followed the skin into the sea. as it glided into the rough water the oil exuded, and made a large patch of calm water as smooth as a mill-pond. this gave me a splendid idea for using the oil. for the future i would always take some with me on my boating expeditions! i did, and put it in a bottle which i kept near the bows, and whenever i got into difficulties near rocks or in a rough sea i could command a calm. this power i used on many occasions, and with invariable success. for instance, if my lines got foul in a choppy sea, i could make the sea calm, and get my gear out of tangle capitally, which, with the pitching of my craft and the "send" of the following waves, would have otherwise been a nearly hopeless task. another use i put the oil to was to pour some on my fish pond and bring the surface to a perfect calm; then i could study my fish as well as if they were simply under a sheet of glass, while by lying flat down on the margin of the pool, with my face near the water, i could see even the most minute object on the bottom. looking into this pool was to me like looking into another world. once when very intent upon the doings of some spider-crabs, the rock upon which i leaned my chest and hands gave way beneath my weight, and i was immediately transformed into a fish, or at any rate, for some moments i was an occupant of the same element and abode as the fish; but i soon scrambled out without even a crab or lobster taking the opportunity of tweaking my nose. to keep up my supply of oil i was continually on the look out for grampuses or porpoises; but i did not see another of the former, although plenty of the latter were to be seen at times--generally out of range. two i shot, but i believe when hit they sink. anyway i did not see either of them again, although the water was coloured with blood, shewing that my aim had been true. i doubly wished to get a porpoise, for the sake of its oil, and also to cut a steak and try its flavour, as i have heard that in some of the ports on the eastern seaboard of the united states, boats are fitted out to capture young porpoises for the hotels, as porpoise calf is considered a delicacy. if cod liver oil is good for consumptives, why not porpoise cutlets? how i would have liked to place a porpoise in my fish pond! what a rumpus he would have caused? i might have seen him then in his habit as he lived. my bucket pump frequently took it into its head to go on strike; that is, it would work when it pleased, and be idle if it wished; so i had to supplement it with another kind of apparatus. this contrivance was by using a nine-foot length of four-inch iron piping, which i found in the boat-store, and which had probably belonged to some vessel as the barrel of a pump, or something of the kind. to this i fitted a long wooden piston, having a wooden disk on the end, through which i cut a circular hole, and fitted over it a leathern valve. when i pushed this piston down into the water the valve would open and the water would enter the barrel, and when i drew the piston up the valve would close and draw the water to the mouth of the pipe, where it poured out of a hole a few inches from the top into a wooden trough, which conveyed it into the pool. this meant hard manual labour; but as i only had to use it about once a week it was exercise for me, and i enjoyed it. so did the fish, for they would come to the new water in numbers, either because of the food contained in the water, or because of its coolness in the hot weather, or some other reason that i am not scientist enough to fathom. my pond was my place of meditation, and often i would dream a couple of hours away, thinking of home and those dear to me. i was like adam, and sometimes sadly sighed for my eve; but eve, otherwise priscilla, was hundreds of miles away; so i sighed and yawned, and made myself very content with my dog and gun, and other belongings. [illustration: decorative chapter heading] chapter x. a storm and a wreck--the castaway--dead--a night of horror--the boathouse destroyed--a burial at sea. winter was now rapidly approaching, but before its advent something of a very grave nature happened. it had been a very blustering day, with occasional showers of sleet, when about four p.m. i found myself standing by the watch-house, holding my hat on; the sun fast setting in a very angry-looking sky. evidently a storm was brewing, so i hauled my saucy little "yellow boy" high above high-water line, and made everything snug before i went indoors just after darkness had fallen all around. i felt uncomfortable somehow, but could not tell why; but when the time for bed came, and the wind was howling round the house as if it meant to cast it bodily into the sea, i did not for some reason care to turn in; so replenishing my lamp i sat down to read, but the wind shook the casements so roughly that i had to give it up. about midnight, although it was late in the autumn, a flash of lightning lit up the room and startled me; in a few seconds the thunder began to roll, but a long way off. i sat waiting for another flash, and presently it came, this time with the thunder much nearer. a little while and another more vivid flash, with the thunder close to its heels, upon which i started up on the impulse of the moment and donned my oilskin suit and sou'wester and sallied out into the night; why i knew not. at first the night was pitch dark, but a flash of brilliant lightning seemed to light up the whole island, while at the same time came a crash of thunder, such as i hope never to hear the like of again. it was as if the whole of the granite island had been shivered to atoms by some awful volcanic crash; in fact, i thought it was an earthquake. it only lasted a few seconds, but it seemed to literally paralyze me; so much so, that i thought i should have fallen. other flashes succeeded, one of them striking a granite block, which it shivered to pieces, although it weighed many tons, and in the shock appeared itself to be broken; that is, it seemed like the first stroke of a smith's hammer upon a red hot piece of iron, when the sparks fly off in every direction. i dare not go along that path, although it was now probably the safest; but as i went towards the beach i could see the lightning run among the wet rocks like phosphorus. as i stood by the watch-house i fancied i could detect human voices crying for aid, but put it down to my imagination, till i saw, to my horror, not a hundred yards from the shore, a french chasse-marã©, or fishing boat, driving straight for the rocks. i shouted, but the noise of the breaking sea rendered it inaudible five yards off against such a wind. two of her three masts were gone, and by the next flash i could distinguish several men crouching by the bulwarks, and one at the tiller. then came a sudden lurch and a dead stop, a tremendous sea crashed on deck, and i knew she had struck the rocks on the beach not fifty yards from where i stood. heaven help them, for no earthly power could. i was helpless to render the slightest assistance. i could only pray, and that i did fervently. doubtless the men would jump into the sea, with the very remote chance of being thrown ashore alive, but that was very improbable. still, there _was_ a chance, and i went along the beach, as far as the nature of the rocky shore would allow me, up and down, up and down, like a dog on a race course, till at last, among a lot of cordage and fishing gear, i thought i espied a man cast ashore, and so it was. he was entangled in the mass of wreckage, and appeared dead. as i thought a spark of life might still remain, i tried to disengage him, but try as i would i could not disentangle his legs, so had recourse to my knife to cut away the ropes which held him so fast. this i found a long process, but at length i freed the poor fellow, and carried, or rather half dragged him to the shelter of some rocks, and tried to revive him. his heart still beat, so i ran to the house and got a bundle of straw and some brandy. with the straw i made him a kind of bed, as he was a big man, and the pathway too steep for me to carry him up, and pouring some brandy into his mouth as he lay back i succeeded in causing him to open his eyes, after about twenty minutes. i chafed his hands and did all i could for him, and then ran back to procure more comforts. when i returned he appeared much better; but although he looked at me he appeared unable to speak, although he made a curious unintelligible noise, such as one hears a dumb man make when he wishes to call a person's attention. i noticed that blood was oozing from the corners of his mouth, and signed to him to open it, when, to my horror, i perceived that he had bitten his tongue completely off; hence his inability to articulate. i then proceeded to examine him all over, but when i touched his body he gave great groans, so that i would fain have left him alone, had i not considered it my duty to act the good samaritan to him. i tried to persuade him by signs to rise, that i might support him to the house, but he shook his head and groaned again, when it occurred to me that his legs might be injured, and this i found to be but too true; both his thighs were broken. then an idea came happily to my mind, i would fetch my donkey and cart, and so endeavour to get him by a circuitous route to the house and put him to bed. away i went and harnessed my faithful servant to his wonderful cart, and was back again in about twenty minutes; but that short period had bereft me of my patient, for when i bent over him to see if he were better, i found he was again senseless. taking up the lantern so that it shed its full light on his face, i at once saw, to my consternation, that he was dead. his eyes were wide open, and his teeth clenched in such a ghastly manner as to make me, for a brief time, tremble with horror to think i was thus left alone with a corpse. i threw a handful of straw over the awful countenance, and went home in an unutterable frame of mind, as to me death has a most unnerving effect. i laid down on my bed, after taking off my wet oil skins; but sleep would not give me the oblivion i so craved till dawn. sometimes i dozed off, but only to dream horribly, so that i would awake in a great perspiration, and with my nerves thoroughly unstrung, i would start to my feet and gaze round the room, as if i expected some dread visitor. it was an awful night for me. about four o'clock in the morning i had just dozed off again, when a loud gust of wind gave my window an extra hard rattle, which woke me. i laid quite still, but presently heard a curious shuffling outside my door, which made me sit upright upon my bed, with my eyes starting from my head, and riveted upon the door, which gradually opened with a peculiar sliding noise, little by little, in jerks, and as it did so i could feel my hair move on my head, as if trying to stand on end with horror, but as it was very long it could only move in locks like writhing eels. little by little the door opened, and i expected to see my black-bearded dead giant, with the awful face enter. i looked instinctively near the top of the door for the face to show itself; but such an awful visitant i was not doomed to see, though in his place, and much nearer the floor, appeared a black head surmounted by a pair of pointed horns. my eyes seemed as if they would fly from their sockets at this sight, but only for a minute, for a body followed the head, which was perfectly familiar to me--_it was my goat_. [illustration: too late!] i dropped upon my bed, overcome by the sudden change from horror to joy, and laid there for some minutes, till the faithful nanny came and licked my ear and brought me back to consciousness again. i afterward accounted for her unexpected visit by surmising that the wind must have blown open the outer door and let her into the passage, as i had never fastened the doors, although the outer ones were provided with bolts. then miss nanny must have pushed open the door of my room with a series of prods with her nose, and as she did so the old rug, which i always threw at the bottom of the door to keep out the draught, was gradually forced back till she had made sufficient space for the admission of her body. oh, the horrors of that night! shall i ever forget them? no, not if i live to the age of noah, who ran his grandfather, methuselah, very close in the race of years. day _did_ dawn at last, and putting out my lamp i slept soundly for several hours; in fact, when i awoke it was mid-day, and the sun shining down pleasantly from a blue and cloudless sky. i breakfasted, fed my animals, and then--then! _what of the dead man lying on the beach?_ i shuddered at the mere idea of going near the poor fellow. i dreaded gazing upon that face again--it _must_ be done, still it need not be done _just_ yet. i would take a walk round the island and see if the storm had thrown up anything else upon the shore, and give myself time to think what i should do with the dead frenchman. i would walk the reverse way round to that which i usually did; that is to go round past the boathouse, and thus along the east shore. this i did so that i might make the tour of the island before seeing the dreadful man again. gun on shoulder, and dog at heel, i started slowly along, but had not gone more than two hundred yards--in fact, had only just got in sight of the boathouse--when i was startled by its changed appearance. the roof was completely gone, and so were huge masses of the walls, the stones of which were scattered thickly about the pathway along which i was walking. i was so excited by the curious appearance that i actually ran towards the building, as if the remaining portion had made up its mind to take its flight after the part which was missing. when i arrived at the ruins i soon discerned what had taken place. the lightning had struck it last night, and what felt to me like an earthquake was the explosion of my large cask of gunpowder. the boathouse was a complete ruin, and the ruin involved the loss of many things of great value to me, among them being my canoe, most of my lamp oil, paints, and above all, tools. i was like the prophet jeremiah weeping over jerusalem, for i sat down on a rock, and viewing the desolation around me, wept also. then i dried my wet cheeks, and there and then set about clearing the ruin. but it was a great task, and would take several days before i could clear the debris and recover such goods and chattels as were not totally destroyed. i dug, i heaved over great masses of granite wall which had been tumbled inward and outward by the explosion, i sawed through beams and hacked through rafters with an axe, but my thoughts were not altogether with my work. every man has a skeleton in his cupboard, but i had more; i had a whole carcase lying near my house, and this occupied my mind as much as my labour. as i thought of it, so the harder i worked, but to no purpose, and presently, for a spell of breathing, i sat down, axe in hand, upon a beam, and resolved to decide there and then what to do. during the daylight i did not so much mind my dread visitor, but it was the approaching night i did not like. why are we so much more in fear of unseen things at night than during the day? whence comes the spell of dread that night brings beneath its black wing? does darkness affect the nerves of a blind man as it does that of one with his full visual powers? i think not. probably day and night are but as one to the blind. then why does darkness bring a certain awe to ordinary mortals? but to resume the thread of my narrative. it appeared to me that there were three courses open to me. i could fire the cannon (i had a few pounds of powder in the store near the house) and summon aid; i could dig a grave and bury the body; or i could hitch on my donkey and drag it down to the water at low tide, and let it be washed whithersoever the sea should take it. i did not like either of these plans. if i fired the cannon it would bring a possã© of curious, prying people to the island, and probably i should be taken away to st. peter port upon a coroner's quest. if i buried the man i should always shun that part of the island, and should have a constant memorial of my "night of horror" to depress me; while if i committed the body to the waves i should for ever have it on my conscience that i refused burial to a christian. then i thought, why not at dawn in the morning tow the body to herm, and drag it ashore on the rocks opposite the labourers' cottages, as if it had been flung there by the waves; but a high sea was running, and to my craft the passage of the percã©e was impossible, for the current running through it would have swept me away, so that with a weight towing astern i should never have reached herm, not even if i had taken the corpse as a passenger inside my boat. i lit my pipe to conjure up fresh inspiration, and the charm worked, for i got an idea which seemed to me to fulfil all my requirements from a religious point of view, and it also appeared practicable. being a sailor, my idea was to give the poor fellow a sailor's funeral, and _bury him myself at sea_; and if the sea were not too rough it should take place this very night. it wanted yet an hour of dusk, and i would commence my preparations at once. having formed my plan, and looked calmly upon my undertaking as one that was a _duty_ for a christian man to perform, the fear in a great measure seemed to leave me. i hauled down my boat, with "eddy's" help, to high-water mark, and then went, with as bold a mien as i could muster, to the poor man's side; nerving myself with a prayer i lifted the straw from his face, and was pleased to find that the features had assumed their normal aspect, in fact but for the eyes being partly opened, he looked as if he were asleep. this was a great relief to me, and i now felt firm for the task i had undertaken. i got the body on the cart by great exertion, and transported it to the boat, where i laid it across amidships on two planks and tied a huge rock to each ankle; then, having prepared everything by the time night set in, i left the boat, as i found the tide would not float her away, and went home. i thought if i waited another four or five hours the swell of the sea would run down with the tide and become calm enough for me to venture out upon my mission. i therefore had a substantial meal, and lay down on my bed to rest, as i was very tired with my day's work and my previous sleepless night. when i awoke i found that it was past eleven p.m., but on looking out discovered that it was a fine night, though very dark. the sea had greatly quieted down, so taking my lantern and dog, i blundered along down the rocky path with "eddy" at my heels, till i came to the boat of which i was presently to become the charon. with "eddy's" help the boat was safely, though riskily launched, as my passenger made it very top heavy. seeing this, i caught "begum" up and tossed him overboard, so that he might swim ashore again, which i daresay he thought a great liberty and very unkind, but it was a necessity. away into the darkness of the night i steered my little bark, among the big hills and vales of the pathless deep. when i had gone as far as i judged it prudent to venture, i thought i would drop anchor and down sail, and accordingly hove the anchor overboard; but somehow the sail would not descend. i had therefore to climb over my passenger and go to the foot of the mast with the lantern to see what was amiss. i found the halyard had jammed in the sheave, and in trying to release it, as the boat slid down the side of a great black wave, she gave a tremendous lurch, and i thought was about to capsize, but she righted quickly as the yard came down on my head by the run. i gathered in the canvas and turned round to see how i could make room for the yard to lie safely when, presto, the dead man was gone! it certainly made my heart give a big thump, but a moment's reflection shewed me that the rolling of my boat had caused the body to shoot off the boards, feet downward, thus saving me the trouble of having to tip it off the planks. the boat was now in good trim, and i had no fear for her safety nor my own, so placing the lantern on the floor, i sat down and read by its uncertain light the stirring service for the "burial of those who die at sea." fervently i said those prayers as the salt spray, mingling with my tears, ran down my face, and when i pronounced the words, "i therefore commit his body to the deep," i looked around fearfully, as if the man might still be near me, but i saw him no more. the bell of st. peter's struck twelve o'clock just as the service was finished, sounding as i had never heard it sound before--so solemn and full of meaning as it tolled out in the still midnight air. i pulled back with great effort, by reason of the heavy roll of the sea, and landed by the ruined boathouse, with great risk of losing both myself and boat. when safely ashore at last i was thankful to have accomplished my dread mission without accident. as i hauled my boat up i felt as if a tremendous weight had been lifted from my shoulders, and was quite happy again; probably at having acted the good samaritan to a man who, like the one in the bible, was not of the same country or creed as myself. [illustration: decorative scroll] [illustration: decorative chapter heading] chapter xi. climate in winter--vision of my father--a warning voice--supernatural manifestations--the falling rock--my life saved by my dog. winter was now come, but a very different atmosphere prevailed to what i had been used to in my norfolk home. there i was accustomed to see the broads and rivers frozen over, and the means of communication by boat between the various rivers completely stopped. there we dreaded the marrow-piercing north-east wind which, coming straight across the cold north sea from icebound norway and the frozen baltic, caused everything, animal and vegetable, to be cut and chilled, so that frequently both man and plant succumbed to its penetrating rigour; but here the north or east wind is not nearly such a dreaded visitor, and it is only on exceptional days that its biting power is felt. there nothing seemed to grow during the winter, all vegetation slumbered, sometimes never to awaken; here in mid winter the primrose and violet were in full bloom, and on new year's day i gathered quite a posy of garden flowers, including roses and other fragrant flowers. snow fell on two or three occasions, but the bright sun dissipated it very quickly, and the frosts were not at all severe; in fact, were only of occasional occurrence. these frosts are only severe enough to hurt one class of persons, and that is the gardeners, who dread a frost coming after the blossoms are set on the trees. the climate being so mild the blossom buds burst at a very early period, so that a late frost coming nips them, then good-bye to the fruit. frequently potatoes are here being eaten before the green tops are above ground in england, which is another proof of the mildness of the climate. no doubt this mildness and equability of temperature is due in a great measure to the influence of the gulf stream, which keeps the surrounding sea at an even temperature; the sea in turn tempering the wind, keeps the thermometer very level. there is usually a very mild fortnight towards the end of october, which the natives call "la petite ã©tã©;" it appears like a return of summer, and is greatly enjoyed by everyone as the last of the really warm weather. in the matter of sunshine england cannot be compared with these islands, for taking our much-favoured devonshire, and comparing the hours of sunshine for december, january, and february, i find that in the channel islands the sun shews its face just double the number of hours that it does in fertile devon. in my garden on january 25th i had peas a foot above ground. how i should have liked to shew my father these, he would scarcely have believed his eyes, for april 25th in norfolk, would not have produced anything much more forward. now, having mentioned my father, i must tell a curious incident which happened concerning him upon the last day of january. about eight o'clock in the evening i was sitting finishing a sketch of creviã§hon, with my dog lying asleep near the fire, when he suddenly half raised himself, and looking towards the other end of the room commenced to whine. i followed his eyes, and there to my astonishment sat my father. he sat on a stool facing me, with his leg, which was enveloped in a huge covering, upon another stool. his right hand rested upon the covered leg, while his left was placed upon his heart. as the dog whined he looked straight at me, and in his well-known voice said, "it's all right, harry, my boy, but it _was_ a shake!" i stood up to rush to him, but as i rose he melted away, leaving nothing but the two empty seats. i was staggered, but calm immediately, for i had read of things of this kind before, and concluded that my father had met with some accident, and had thus by some unknown means communicated with me in spirit. [illustration: a ghostly visitant.] i knew nothing of the why or wherefore of this wonderful means of communication between two persons, but judged that in this case it happened in this wise. my father had met with a severe accident, which he was probably afraid might have had a fatal termination, that his thoughts were intent upon me, his absent son. as he intently thought of me, and how he should like to speak to me, he may have actually spoken the words to himself, which by some unknown means i heard apparently fall from his own lips, and in his very voice. the words assured me of his safety, and therefore beyond taking a note of the day and the hour, i did not trouble myself much more about the curious incident. while on this subject of the apparently supernatural, i will mention one or two other inexplicable things which occurred to me during my residence on jethou. one night in autumn i could not sleep, so towards dawn got up and dressed myself, as i had frequently done before, and took a walk round the island, a distance of over a mile. this proceeding always had the effect of giving me the desired sleep upon my again wooing morpheus. on this particular night my mind was filled with the question, "how can i keep my fish pond always replenished with sea water?" and as i wandered on in the dark, knowing the path so well, i was concocting a new pumping device, when my steps were suddenly arrested by the word "harry!" pronounced gently but plainly just behind me. this woke me abruptly from my reverie, and i turned round quickly, but could see nothing but my faithful dog at my heels. "strange, very strange indeed," i thought, and was about to resume my walk, but there, not four steps away, was the yawning abyss of la creux derrible, into which i should have walked in another second, and been dashed to pieces on the rocks below. my life was saved, but by what? was it a spirit voice or some night bird that in my abstraction i fancied pronounced my name?[2] some will say the latter, but i must maintain that it was a curious thing that this should happen at precisely the correct instant, just in time to save me from a violent death. it _was_ a voice, for i recognized it as that of my own love, priscilla, who was at the moment two or three hundred miles away. but how could _she_ know of my danger? it may strike the reader as strange, and it is _strange_, i will allow; but on another occasion my life was saved in a remarkable manner. one afternoon late in the winter, after a heavy fall of rain, i was sitting near the brink of the granite cliff on the west side of the island, making a sketch of some rock masses in the glow of the ruddy setting sun, when "begum" became suddenly restive, and rubbed several times with his head against my leg, looking up into my eyes at intervals. then he would walk away, looking round as if wanting me to follow and see something (a proceeding he had often done before); but being busy i did not give way to his solicitations, and went on working. this did not please him, for he now took hold of my coat sleeve, and gave me a tug, with his eyes at the same time fixed on mine; so, to oblige him, i rose, and went after him to see what wonder he had to shew me. contrary to his usual custom he appeared to have nothing for me to see, but seemed pleased to have me follow him, shewing his joy by wagging his tail, as if he would wriggle his body in two, and looking up into my face over his shoulder to shew his pleasure. as i had nearly finished my sketch i thought i would humour him, and avoid taking cold by sitting too long in the cool atmosphere among the damp rocks. with this thought in my mind i turned round to fetch my colours and sketch, when suddenly near the top of the island a large block of granite, about the size of a thirty-six gallon barrel became detached, and commenced a downward career, crashing all before it in its course. i paused and watched it, waiting to see it bury itself with a mighty splash in the sea. it descended in leaps and bounds with increasing velocity, till, with a final rise it launched itself upon the very stone on which i was sitting a minute before, and with a sharp crash broke it completely in two, hurling the pieces and itself the next instant into the sea! my sketch went with the rocky seat, and but for the intervention of my dog i should have been _killed_ first and drowned _afterwards_. my colours, lying on the ground a foot away, were uninjured. what is the interpretation of this? it might be said that the previous heavy rains had loosened the rock, and the warm sunshine having swelled the mass of the earth beneath, had overbalanced it, and thus nearly brought about a catastrophe. but what of the dog's warning? it was _strange_, that is all the solution i can give. as a norfolk labourer once said to me when i was pumping him upon the subject of superstition, "master, there's more things about than we knows of about both by day and night." perhaps there are, and if they are _things_ of _good_, so much the better. we know of hypnotism, psychic force, spiritualism, thought reading, and other occult sciences which appear to produce nothing very grand as results for _good_, but who shall say there is not some "guiding good" which can (even against our wills) warn us, or sway our minds in a given direction or in some way influence our movements, by means _outside ourselves_? sometimes after dark, with a half gale blowing, i have fancied all kinds of things were about, of which the eye or ear might get indistinct glimpses, and with the wind sighing and moaning among the trees and rocks and my solitary life also taken into consideration, was this to be wondered at. solitude gives latitude for an imaginative mind to expand itself, and for one shut up by himself as i was, trifles are frequently made prominent, simply because there is nothing greater to attract one's attention and thought. the wind sweeping among the rocks in a gale, will at times, form at it were, notes or peculiar noises, which will, with other sounds of rustling branches, the cry of wild fowl and the beat of the sea on the shore, all taking place concurrently, cause the listener to imagine he hears voices. again, who has not, when walking by a noisy babbling brook, where it falls among rocks and other impediments in a quiet place, heard as he has thought voices as of persons conversing at a distance? many trout-fishers will have heard these sounds, and know the reason of their being heard; they can fully explain the cause, but i doubt if they could explain the curious experiences related in this chapter. [illustration: decorative scroll] footnote: 2: i am aware that these things are but trifles to the theosophists and esoteric buddhists, who profess to project their astral bodies, and play many other hocus pocus tricks of transmitting voices and articles to immense distances. they may therefore be able to explain these phenomena, i cannot; still i have the belief that there is some spirit-force which can and does act as a medium between distant persons who are in sympathy with each other. [illustration: decorative chapter heading] chapter xii. a fairy pool--wonders of the deep--portrait of a poet--the cave of fauconnaire--a letter from home and my answer to it. as the weather towards the end of winter was very uncertain, i did but little boat-fishing, except on very fine days, when the sea was fairly calm, and i had a longing for a certain kind of fish. at such times i would embark for an hour or two, and rarely came home empty-handed. crabs and lobsters i soon got tired of, and i think most people who could eat their fill of them for the mere catching would do the same; but a nice sole or slice of turbot takes a long time to satiate one's appetite. although little could be done in the garden or field during the winter days i was never idle; that is, i never indulged in lying in bed or letting the time slip dreamily by, so as to induce the belief that i was enjoying myself. no, that would not suit me at all, for my disposition was to be ever on the go--seeing, hearing, or trying to learn something. thus i knew almost every rock and cranny round the island, as i was always poking and ogling into odd crannies and pools to see what i could discover. among my favourite places was the fauconnaire, which being surrounded at every tide, was always having fresh life and vegetation brought to it by the ever-moving sea. there were many pools and wonderful little caves round this curious, conical island, of which i knew, and into whose recesses i loved to pry; and although i visited them frequently they seemed ever new to me. there was, facing due east, a large mass of rock near the foot of the fauconnaire, upon which i often sat on a calm day, looking down into the mysteries of the sea. the water was so wonderfully clear, that at a depth of twenty feet i could see every pebble and bunch of weed as plainly as if only a sheet of glass hid them from view. this was to me very remarkable, as on the sandy east coast of england, an object two or three feet beneath the surface is hidden from the eye by the discolouration of the water, caused by the sand and soft clay cliffs. here i could look down at one of the most lovely gardens the eye of man ever rested upon. it was a wonderfully diversified collection of marine plants of all sizes, shapes, and colours; in fact, a perfect marine paradise. the colours embraced every hue of green, from the pale tint of a cut cucumber to the darkest shade of bronze, merging upon blackness. the yellow plants embraced every tint of yellow and orange imaginable, while the pinks ran the whole gamut of shades of that colour. the forms and sizes of this enchanting garden of flowers without blossom were as varied as the colours. on the rocky slopes adhered tiny anemonã¦; lower down were other bushy weeds growing in all forms and positions, while further away in the deeper water rose up great feathery fronds and waving arms, like the tentacles of some giant octopus feeling for its prey. this bed of snake-like brown arms was a weird spot, which only wanted a mermaid or two to make it complete; but i, as a _mere man_, could only complete the picture by magnifying in my mind's eye the innumerable fishes which swam in and out among the luxuriance of marine vegetation, so as to fancy them mermaidens, and thus people this wonderful water palace. the fish sometimes came along in shoals, principally the spotted rock-fish, which seemed to be painted by nature to resemble the colours of the surrounding rocks, stones, and sea-weed. sometimes they would appear singly, swimming hurriedly, just giving the leaves a pat with their tails, as if closing the door behind them. these seemed to be messengers, for presently others of a larger size would come along more leisurely, as if to clear the way, and in a short time would appear quite a shoal of these beautiful fish of all sizes, forming a procession, as if they had some kind of carnival or festival afoot, and were making the most of the day. what a spot for a poet to muse in! how he could roll his azure eyes and comb out his locks with his lily-white taper fingers, and gaze into space for a word to rhyme! how he would wrinkle his lofty brow, compress his cupidon upper lip, and unloose his _negligã©_ necktie, to give room for his bosom to swell with pride at the enchanting poem which would, at the picture before him, be sure to flow from the tip of his pretty little golden stylographic pen! at least this is how i fancy a poet must act, but never having seen one of those wonderful beings at work, i have, like the said poet, to get my picture from the source of some of his best work--the imagination. but a truce to badinage. true poetry is not a thing to laugh at and disdain, for it is the salt of life, which makes existence endurable, and gives a savour to our worldly toil. pierce, a modern poet, hits off the shores of jethou capitally, thus: "lucent wave! flash in sparkling bells on the coloured stones and tiny shells; with low music lave sheltering rock, flood the glassy pool, sway the foliage 'neath its crystal cool, wake with gentle shock the anemonã¦, that like some lovely flower petals opening 'neath the sunlight's power, its beauty spreads to thee." at low tide--or rather, at half tide--may be seen a huge square-headed fissure or cave quite through a portion of la fauconnaire. its sides are walls of granite, and the roof is also of that stone, from ten to twelve feet high on the average, but much more in parts. although daylight is admitted at each end of this tunnel it is somewhat gloomy in the centre, which perhaps adds to its charms, as objects are seen less clearly, thus giving more scope to the imagination, of which daylight is frequently a great destroyer. semi-gloom causes one to speculate upon things which, seen in the broad glare of day, have nothing of mystery or wonder about them; they are but too evident to the eye. a grammar-school education does not permit of great descriptive flights, or this cavern would be for me an exquisite theme upon which to write a chapter on fairyland. the walls of this vaulted chamber sparkled from the constant dripping of water, which appeared to ooze from the sides and roof as the tide went down; but what appeared most noticeable was the pink hue of these walls, which upon closer inspection appeared to be lined with a kind of coral, or some such substance, while here and there from roof and walls depended most lovely fern-like sea-weed, whose long fronds waved gracefully in the grateful breeze which came in from the south end in puffs, just enough to stir the glorious pool of water covering the whole floor of the cave. the chamber is not very wide, probably not more than from four to five feet, so that the pool on the floor forms a miniature lake of surpassing beauty, some forty or fifty feet long, and from one to two feet deep; but the contents and the arrangement of that pool who shall describe? in this small space may be found animal and vegetable life of all kinds, anemonã¦, lovely weeds, zoophytes, curious fish, sponges, shells, coral, and a hundred other things, all in such perfection and orderly wildness that no artificial aquarium can ever hope to present, for they are made by hands, and can never vie with nature in the formation of the wild and picturesque aspect of these rocky pools. as the sea filled this cave at every tide there was always something new for me to admire whenever i made a visit, and my only regret was that i could not take it home with me if i should be spared to see norfolk again. now to proceed a little further with my narrative. christmas was a time which i knew not how to fill up. i wanted to be jolly and to make some festive difference in the usual routine of my daily life and fare, but with no companion i found it a very difficult task, even to make myself believe it really was christmas time. i made a plum pudding which had scarcely the consistence to hang together when i rolled it out of the cloth; but that mattered little, as a broken pudding required less muscular activity for the jaws. the main point was the flavour; it was not at all bad. tinned beef, potatoes, tomatoes, a cauliflower, a rabbit pie, walnuts, and apples formed my christmas dinner, which was washed down by a bottle of bass i had reserved as a special christmas treat. i drank the health of my absent friends, and even gave three cheers for the king of jethou--myself. to make the season appear as christmassy as possible i cudgelled my brain for a whole week, and composed what i am pleased to call a christmas carol.[3] in olden time a child was born in bethlehem the holy; mary was the mother's name, who lay in manger lowly _refrain_--sing, happy virgin, mother mild; sing, joseph, father blessã¨d; sing, angels, shepherds, men so wise, for this thy lord confessã¨d. and as she in the manger lay, beside the stallã¨d cattle, a throng of shepherds entered in to hear the childish prattle. the shepherds low obeisance made, before the manger kneeling, as thro' the casement's open space the star's bright ray came stealing. the wingã¨d angel choir stood by, their carol sweet a-singing; while men of wisdom from the east, drew near, their offerings bringing. then from the clouds was heard a voice, this message earthward sending, "peace rest upon the earth so fair, good-will 'twixt men ne'er ending." although the lines seemed to go very well, i had great difficulty in hitting upon a suitable tune; but when once i did fit the verses to a composition of my own, i howled it from morning till night all over the island. the very animals and birds must have been satiated with it. possibly they would gladly have exchanged christmas for easter, or some other church festival, just for the sake of variety and change of tune. one misty morning at the end of february, i was standing near the old cannon, chopping firewood wherewith to heat my oven, for it was my weekly baking day, when i saw a boat containing two men coming through the creviã§hon channel towards the house. one was pulling, and the other, who sat in the stern sheets, waved a white flag or handkerchief upon a stick, to attract my attention. i noticed them as soon as they did me, and waved in return, making signs for them not to land. with my chopping hook still in my hand i ran down the rocky path towards them, and arrived at the water's edge just as they were about to run the boat ashore. i did not know what their intention in landing might be, so shook the chopper at them to warn them off. my stature, and the sight of my bare right arm, had their due effect, for they sheered off, a few boats' lengths, much to my relief. i soon found, however, that they were two of the men of herm on a very peaceful mission, as they simply came to deliver a letter to me which a boat had brought over from st. peter port. i dare not speak, or could have asked them their mission, and they seemed quite dumbfounded at my bellicose attitude towards them. the man in the stern now held up the letter, upon which i pantomimically intimated my wish that he should come close in and throw the letter to me. i then, lest they should be afraid to approach, threw my chopper as far behind me as i could, sending it clattering among the boulders nearly up to the cliff. then the man in the stern folded the letter in two, and tied a piece of spun yarn round it, to which he attached a piece of stone, and tossed it to me. it fell fluttering near me, and i was almost afraid to pick it up, for fear it might contain some bad news of my family; but stooping, i secured it, placing it in my shirt bosom. then by signs i expressed my thanks to the kind hermese who had brought the missive. when they had pulled out of sight towards herm i sat down on a rock, and very mistrustfully drew forth the crumpled envelope. was my father dead? what of priscilla? was mother ailing? these and a hundred other questions flashed across my mind as i slowly broke open the envelope. it was a letter from my dear old dad. short, but quite assuring it ran: "my dear boy, "all is well. on the 2nd of march you will have occupied jethou just twelve months. some of my yarmouth friends say i am cruel to allow you to stay alone so long, and think you must be so broken down by your exile, that nothing would keep you in jethou six months longer. young johnson has even gone so far as to say he would wager you one hundred pounds you dare not stay another six months, and i therefore write to make known his offer, which i have in black and white, duly signed by him. "write me the word, yes or no, _only_. "your affectionate father, "william k. nilford." what a curious letter from my father after all these months! not a word as to himself, mother, or priscilla. not a line of news except the first three words, "all is well." that was assuring, at any rate, and made me feel happy. young johnson was the squire's son, a dashing, go-ahead fellow, but not greatly liked in the village, by reason of his haughtiness. although i had been looking forward to my return home i would not go to be laughed at by our yarmouth friends; no, i would stay at all risks, and with the one hundred pounds i could make my future bride, priscilla, a grand present. yes, my mind was made up at once, and if the men had been within hail they might have come back and received my answer to send over to the st. peter port post office, from which the packet would take it to england, so that in about three or four days my father would receive it. my answer was quickly written, for my reply was very laconic: "_february 28th, 18--._ "my dear father, "all is well. i accept johnson's wager of one hundred pounds, that i do not occupy jethou for another six months. "your affectionate son, "harry nilford." about noon i espied two men fishing off the nearest point of herm, and going to the north-east corner of my island, to the promontory guarding lobster bay, i signalled them with a handkerchief upon an ash sapling. they soon saw the signal and pulled towards me. as they neared me i was pleased to find they were the same two men who brought my father's letter to me in the morning. they came close into the bay, so that i had only to lean down and drop the letter into the boat, pointing towards st. peter port to signify i wanted it to go there by the first boat going. "oui, trã¨s bien." then i dropped half a crown (three francs) into their boat, and away they pulled, quite pleased. i went about my work, but in about twenty minutes, looking towards guernsey, i saw the two men pulling away to st. peter port with my letter. this was more than i expected, as it would give them a rough pull of six miles. i only meant them to take the letter to herm; but away it went, and a day was saved. away to my digging. i returned and forgot all about the men and the letter, but to my astonishment about four hours after, they hailed me, shouting and gesticulating, "c'est juste," they cried, and then away they went home, and i saw them no more. [illustration: decorative scroll] footnote: 3: perhaps one of my musical readers will have the great kindness to set this little carol to music, and let me see what it goes like to a tune that is musical and carol-like. [illustration: decorative chapter heading] chapter xiii. another terrible storm--loss of the "yellow boy"--a ketch wrecked--i rescue a man from the sea, badly injured--he recovers. february went out angrily, a heavy sea and a high wind being constant companions, but if february was wild the opening days of march were worse; it blew great guns and was cold also, and was decidedly unpleasant. beside the weather being unpleasant it was also a source of anxiety to me, for i had drawn the "yellow boy" upon a ledge of the fauconnaire, above high water-mark; but now that the sea was in such a terrible rage, i was afraid it should dash over the ledge and dislodge her. if it did, nothing could save her. i could go over to her at low water, but could not draw her up higher, as the great rocks shelved out over her to the height of forty or fifty feet, and i had no tackling strong enough to raise her bodily to that awkward altitude; so i hoped and hoped on, but on the 4th of march matters came to a climax. the sun rose red and angry, the wind blew in great jerks and booms that staggered me as i walked along the perilously narrow paths. just before high tide i walked along the lower path which, although fifty feet above the sea, was soaked with salt spray from the roaring coamers breaking below. the wind was so laden with spray that it was difficult to face it while staggering along the rugged cliff path; but presently i arrived at the point opposite the "yellow boy," and was glad to see her still there, although she was sadly buffeted by the waves, which continually leapt up to lick her off her granite cradle. i had secured her with ropes as well as i could, and had even taken an anchor (attached to her mooring rope) some fifty feet up on a grassy ledge above, and there securely fixed it into the short turf, with which the first plateau of rocks were covered. [illustration: "along the rugged cliff path."] i sat down in my oilskins in the shelter of a rock to watch my precious boat, but i could see that her doom was sealed if the wind did not drop; but that it did not do, for as the tide rose, so did the wind, till it fairly howled among the rocks and tore through the trees in an awful rage, so that presently the ropes which bound the "yellow boy" gave way, as she was now very heavy, being level full of water. she only hung by the anchor rope now, like a man being hanged, and every wave that rose and broke in and around her, swung her from side to side, or spun her round till she gradually banged herself to pieces against the cruel granite walls. then the tide gradually went down, and left the mere dangling skeleton of my once beloved craft, hanging high and dry above the send of the foaming waves, which at intervals rushed among the now exposed rocks. the anchor held, and to the rope hung the two upper strakes, to which were attached the two fore compartments; all the rest was completely swept away, and with it my hope of again being able to take the sea for fishing, shooting, or sailing purposes. alas! poor "yellow boy," i shall never see your like again! (neither probably will anyone else!) she answered my purpose admirably, but as a model of naval construction she was an absolute monstrosity, and would have made an object of great interest in a naval exhibition. i deeply regretted her loss, as i wanted to take her home as a great curiosity to open the eyes of the yarmouth fishermen; but it was not to be, and i turned sadly away; my chief occupation (that of boating) being completely gone. as i stood once more on the cotills i saw two small vessels making for the little russel, or "petit ruan," as the channel between guernsey and herm is called. they were labouring heavily, with very little canvas set, and evidently trying to gain the shelter of the islands, and if possible make for st. peter's or st. sampson's harbour. along they came, struggling and creeping closer, fathom by fathom, till just as the foremost was passing la fauconnaire, her foremast snapped short off by the deck. in a moment she broached too, driving gradually broadside on to jethou. the other finding she could not run into port, ran off towards jersey where she might get better shelter, if it were not altogether a case of leaping out of the frying-pan into the fire, as the jersey rocks are quite as hard and sharp as ours. at any rate in half an hour she was lost to sight. the one which was now so helplessly driving towards where i stood was a trim little trading ketch of some fifty tons burthen, and from my elevated position i could see everything that took place on her deck. i saw the men (there were three men and a boy) cast out two anchors which appeared to hold her, then they commenced to cut away the mast and gear, which had fallen overboard and was thumping her sides so continuously as to cause grave apprehension of her being stove in. having done this they rigged the pump, and at it they went with vigour. all their activity was required, as every wave that broke over her must have penetrated her seams, which were doubtless opened by the buffeting she had received. but alas! their noble efforts were all in vain, for with a snap, snap, which i could distinctly hear, her cables both broke, and she drifted quickly towards the shore. seeing this, and thinking i might possibly be of some service, i ran down to a little wooden shelter i had built at the side of the cotills, and procured a coil of thin rope, and slinging it over my shoulder i hurried back with it to the scene of what would probably be in a few minutes, a wreck. when i got back, having only been absent three or four minutes, i saw that the crew had given up all hope of saving their vessel, and were now only intent on saving their lives. to this end they were getting their only boat out, lowering it safely on the lee side with two of the men and the boy in it; the third man, who appeared to be the skipper, would not leave the vessel, so the boat pushed off, but had not moved ten fathoms away when a tremendous sea curled up under its stern, and turned the boat a complete somersault, shooting the three occupants out into the water. they could none of them swim apparently, and in a few seconds disappeared beneath the turbulent waves; at least i did not see them again, so that doubtless they found a watery grave. the last man evidently saw his danger, but was quite calm, although his end seemed near, as only about two hundred yards now intervened between the vessel and the rocky shore. he proceeded to lash a spar across the two water barrels, which he emptied and bunged up, and then stood ready to jump overboard with them, when the vessel struck. i also was on the alert with my coil of rope, following the vessel as she drifted slowly along the shore, till she neared a spur of cliff, which runs out near the watch-house, close to the homestead, and here she came in full contact with a mass of rock which shook her, crushed in her stem, and made her recoil. the next wave threw her back again, but luckily more steadily, so that i was enabled to throw my coil of rope down upon her deck from my coign of vantage. i quickly whipped the shore end round the stem of a huge furze bush, which grew within ten feet of the brink of the cliff, and to my joy found that the man had seized the end which i had thrown towards him. he stood amidship, being afraid to venture too close to the bows, as the next wave would doubtless ram the ship hard against the rocks again, and if he jumped now, he would simply be smashed to pieces between the rocks and the vessel. he waited, holding on to the coamings of the hatchway, which had been burst open, till the little ketch gave another tremendous leap upon the cruel rocks, and then as she recoiled he sprang to his feet, threw over his barrel life preserver, and without hesitation leaped overboard with the rope round his chest just beneath his arms. he swam, and i hauled, and as he mounted the next wave i slackened, or he might have been dashed to pieces, then on the wave breaking and running back, i hauled with all my might, and in a short time had him safe in my arms, and bore him amid the dashing spray and foam safely beyond danger. he was just able to stand, and that was all, for directly i had half dragged and half carried him up the cliffs to a grassy spot, he fell backwards insensible. he could not have been in the sea more than two minutes, yet he was terribly cut about, his hands being covered with blood; some of his fingers were cut to the bone. this was done when the first wave threw him against the rocks, when all depended upon his being able to hold on against the receding water. he did in his despair hold on, as he afterwards described it, "like a limpet," and thus though terribly battered he was saved, the sole survivor of his little crew. when he came to, i assisted him up to the house, where i gave him some hot grog and more solid refreshment, and then prepared him a warm bath. poor fellow! his legs made me shudder to look at them, so cruelly had the rocks torn and lacerated them from the knee downward. yet in his terrible state the brave fellow was quite beside himself with joy at his miraculous escape, while the next minute the hot tears would gush from his eyes at the thought of his poor messmates, who had sailed their last voyage, and were now floating about to be devoured by the huge congers, crabs, and lobsters, which are so numerous in these deep seas. a long night's rest greatly restored my guest, who had come to me _ã  la_ friday in "robinson crusoe;" in fact, i felt an almost irresistible longing to call him friday, and introduce myself to him as r. crusoe, esq.; but when i looked at his pale face and hands swathed in huge bandages, i concluded it to be an ill time for any joking. after a day or two's rest and unceasing attention to his wounds on my part, i was pleased to find him greatly improved both in body and spirits, and therefore felt that i might ask him a little about himself. what information he gave me i will here epitomise. he was by name alexander ducas, a son of france, his native village being situate on the bay of avranches, facing jersey. he was about my own age, but had seen more ups and downs than most men of double his years. he had been in the french navy; had been mate of several vessels; had also taken charge of several english yachts; had been skipper of two or three small trading vessels, and finally had become owner and skipper of the little ketch which had met with such a disastrous end a few days before. this was not the first nor the second time he had narrowly escaped death by drowning; but as he afterwards told me, "he thought he had done with the _surface_ of the water," and probably had i not opportunely been on the spot, he would have shared the fate of his poor crew, none of whose bodies were ever seen again. [illustration: rescue of alec ducas.] "why did you throw overboard your water barrel life preserver; before you clutched my rope," i asked him. "a double chance," he replied, "for if the rope business had failed, i might still have secured the aid of the barrels to support me. a poor chance i allow, but a _chance_ nevertheless." he was of medium height, fair, with sandy moustache, compactly knit, and of surprising strength for a man of his inches. i afterwards found that he was possessed with more than an ordinary amount of physical endurance, for no matter how much work he crowded into a long summer's day, he was always as blithe as a cricket when work was over, and we sat by the old cannon to smoke an evening pipe and chat together about our plans and prospects. strange to say, he knew the man i buried at sea some months before, in fact, had sailed with him on one vessel for several months, and he moreover gave him a very bad character. it appears that he was a most desperate fellow, having been in prison on several occasions for violent conduct, and was noted for his brutal language and bad behaviour. he had been turned out of the french navy for insubordination, and while on the frigate was a perfect terror to his messmates. he was noted as the strongest man of the three hundred who formed her crew, and as ducas said, "there won't be enough tears shed over his death by the friends who knew him to wet a postage stamp!" what a lucky thing for me this man did not become _my_ comrade. by the end of a week ducas, or as i more familiarly called him alec, was able to take short walks, and the more he saw of the island the better he liked it, and finally asked to be allowed to stay with me, and cultivate the land, and render what service he could in other ways. i was in a quandary to know how to answer him, as i did not know how it would affect my agreement with young johnson "to stay on the island for six months longer." i therefore told alec i would let him know my decision in four days from then, giving myself that time to turn the matter over in my mind. so far as the agreement with my father went that was concluded, as my twelve months had already expired; but what i was puzzled about was how i should stand with johnson. it seemed to me that he expected me to remain _alone_ on the island for the specified time--six months--but what was i to do now man friday had arrived? i puzzled over the matter a long time, and then came to the conclusion that win or lose i would stay on the island another summer, and whether i transgressed the contract or not, i would retain ducas, as it would be very pleasant to have a companion, and if i was by so doing breaking the contract, must abide by the consequences. i next interviewed alec ducas, and found that between his sea engagements he had assisted in gardening and the usual routine of farm work, beside which, being a thorough seaman, he could make his own clothes and boots, consequently mine; in fact, could turn his hand to anything, as only a sailor can. "well, ducas, i am going to stay here for another six months; you have seen the resources of the house and island, and can judge best, if you think you would rather stay here than go over to st. peter port in prospect of getting another vessel. what do you say, would you rather go or stay?" to this he made reply, his face beaming with delight, "well, sir, i have not much of a mind to make up, but if you will allow me to stay and help you, nothing will give me greater pleasure; in fact, such a life is the one i crave. there is liberty for a man here, and plenty of work to be done, and i have ample health and strength to do it, so if you will say 'yes,' i will take up my quarters with you." he spoke very good english, but with a decidedly foreign accent (which sounded very pleasant to me, more so as he had a very musical voice), and was a plain spoken man, one who called a spade a spade, and made no nonsense about it. "very well, alec," said i; "then you stay, and i trust we may get along happily together." [illustration: decorative scroll] [illustration: decorative chapter heading] chapter xiv. work and song--sunday service--build a larger boat, the "anglo-franc"--collecting wreckage--commence a jetty--our cookery--blasting operations--the opening banquet. during the remainder of march we worked away merrily in the garden and in the fields on the top of the island. i was really astonished at the work we could get through in a day, alec, myself, and the donkey. alec laughed at my plough and the cart, and together we made some improvements in them. we also improved the lower path right round the island, by cutting away the furze and undergrowth; with spade and pick we made it broader in the narrowest parts, and by filling the inequalities, made it comfortable to walk upon. alec was a wonder for singing; in fact he was warbling all day long over his work, and i must say he had rather a nice tenor voice, just such as an englishman would expect a frenchman to possess. his rã©pertoire of songs was large, and embraced both ancient and modern, sacred and secular, french and english; so there was plenty of variety. somehow or other, although he was of a most lively disposition, most of his "best songs," as he called those he could sing with the greatest ease and effect, were of the somewhat dismal or semi-lachrymose type, as "tom bowling," "half mast high," "the skipper and his boy," etc. these are all beautiful in their way, but with repetition pall upon one somewhat, while your jovial song seems ever fresh, and will stand singing many times before it becomes threadbare. sometimes of an evening, after supper and a pipe, we would indulge in duet singing, and when we came to the end of the song we would praise each other and encore ourselves. "let's have that one again. that's capital! bravo!" then at it we would go again, sometimes till near midnight. i had an old volume of sea songs in my trunk, several of which we both knew, as "all's well," "larboard watch," "the anchor's weighed," etc. alec's tenor and my deep baritone harmonized rather well, so we thoroughly enjoyed ourselves. as we had no hearers we used to give wonderful expression to our singing, possibly it was lucky no one could hear us, for it would certainly unstring their nerves. on sundays we did no work, but at eleven o'clock had a kind of service which lasted quite an hour and a half. i was parson and read the service, while alec was clerk and read the lessons and made the responses, while, to pass the time away, we always sang two hymns wherever only one should be sung. this was to give each of us an opportunity of selecting his favourites. there was no levity in all this, we did it as a duty to our maker, in thankfulness for the manifold blessings bestowed upon us during the week; for our health, welfare, and all the other blessings which he bestowed upon us from day to day. alec had great cause to be thankful that he had been spared ever to put foot on land again, while i, beside my numerous lucky escapes, had not had a day's real illness since i landed. before i left the island, sankey and moody's "sacred songs" would scarcely hold together, so much had it suffered from being turned by our great rough thumbs and fingers, while to say that some of the pages were slightly soiled was putting it in a very mild manner. a stranger might have thought that we hid the volume up the chimney, when not in use, and the appearance would quite have warranted his surmise. our first great work together was to build another boat, a larger one than the "yellow boy," and on an improved principle. first we collected whatever we thought would be of use in the construction of our craft, which we christened, before a stick of her was laid, "the anglo-franc." this was a curious commencement, i must own, but then we did some very strange things on jethou. the name was chosen because we, as shipwrights, were respectively english and french. we scoured the whole island for material, and succeeded in getting a huge pile together from various sources, thus we were not so cramped as when i built the famous "yellow boy." speaking of the "yellow boy" reminds me that after the big storm i saved the portion which still depended from the cable, suspended from the side of la fauconnaire. these pieces were the two upper strakes, fifteen feet long, and the fore and second compartments. the timber from these helped us greatly in the building of the new boat. besides this there were a number of rafters and floor boards that i had collected from the old store-house after the explosion; but our third and best supply was obtained from the wreck of alec's ketch, "jeanette," the fore part of which still remained jammed high up between two rocks, which stood about twelve feet apart, near high-water mark, on la creviã§hon. from this, by dint of three days' hard work, we secured several loads of deck-timber and other very useful pieces, which "eddy" dragged up for us to the ruined store-house. we found our cart wheels were not high enough to clear the big stones on the beach, so we took them off and replaced them by two runners so as to form a kind of sledge, which answered much better, although many pieces were jerked off _en route_, by reason of the rugged path and primitive construction of the sledge. as alec remarked, they served as guide posts, so that there was no losing the way. this idea i got by reading catlin's "north american indians." by lashing two long tent poles at a horse's sides, with the ends trailing on the ground, they form a kind of sledge, upon which they can carry considerable loads upon transverse sticks. from the battered hulk we also brought a great number of bolts and other iron-work, a companion ladder, windlass, pump, bowsprit bits, bell, a torn jib, a quantity of cordage, and whatever else we could lay our hands upon, that might have the most remote chance of being of future use to us. in story books it is usual to have a ship come ashore just in a convenient spot, and with a full cargo; but ours, unfortunately, was only half a battered hulk, perfectly empty, and in a most awkward position to get at, as we had to cross the creviã§hon channel at every trip, so that we could only bring the wreckage over at low tide. we could, however, continue our work of dismantling right through the day, except for two hours, when the high tide flowed in and out through poor "jeanette's" ribs. these two hours we took for rest, food, and the soothing pipe. bless raleigh! when we had collected all our material, both iron and wood, we commenced building the "anglo-franc," and in three weeks had her finished and afloat. she was sixteen feet over all, by five feet beam, and was rigged in the style peculiar to the guernsey boats; that is to say she had two small masts. the foremast was stepped exactly amidships, while the mizen was placed close to the stern. this arrangement strikes an englishman as very strange, as they are in the habit of seeing the foremast very nearly in the bows; but ducas was a sailor, and knew the rig adapted to these waters, and i must say that under most circumstances the "anglo-franc" behaved herself admirably. she was a success in every way. one special feature was, that we built a kind of half-deck forward, which formed a small cuddy or cabin quite large enough for one of us to have "a watch below" in, or for a regular sleep at night, or we could both squeeze inside during a pelting rain. we spent several single nights at sea in the "anglo-franc" during the summer, and by putting a sail-cloth awning from the aft edge of the cuddy deck we lengthened our cabin by four feet, and could thus both obtain a good night's rest, or cook in any wind or weather. when we had finished the boat we were rather at a loss to know how to find accommodation for her when we did not actually require to use her. in fine weather she could lie moored just off the house, and to enable us always to keep her afloat, we rigged up an out-haul, so that standing on the shore we could haul the boat out or in to its moorings whenever we chose. this was all very well in fine weather, but when a fresh south-west wind was blowing, and a heavy sea on, she would pitch and roll to such an extent that we were afraid she would break loose and drift away. we had therefore to cast about for some safer place for her, and with this in view inspected the whole island round. when we came to lobster bay, at the north-east corner, we agreed that that was the most sheltered position we could find, and most suitable in every way for a haven. quite at the angle of the island a promontory runs straight out to the eastward for a distance of about forty yards, thus forming a shelter from the rush of the rising tide through the perchã©e channel, while the island of herm kept the wind from the north-east in check. "now," said alec, "if we could build a little stone breakwater from the end of cape homard (cape lobster, as alec called the point, because we kept the lobster and crab pots there), we could make as safe a little harbour as one could wish for." this proposition seemed all very well, but the quantity of stone i knew it would take rather staggered me, and i was a long time before i could be brought to give my consent to help in the matter. but when alec had laid out his plans to me, i found them so consistent that i readily agreed to help in the work. without wearying the reader by describing in too great detail the building of our breakwater, i will just give an outline of how it was built, and another great success achieved, although to ensure that success we had to work like a couple of galley slaves. still, with all our hard work, we were as happy as a couple of schoolboys. we toiled, sang, and ate with such appetites as only those who are used to hard work in the sea air can know. our plan was to work on monday; enjoy fishing, etc., on tuesday; work on wednesday at the breakwater, at the garden on thursday; on friday at the breakwater again; and on saturday till noon also, after which we devoted the rest of the day to baking, clothes washing and mending, and other domestic duties. how my mother and 'cilla would have laughed to see me at the wash-tub, or hanging out the linen to dry on the furze bushes; or to have seen alec using a flat iron which, with great labour, we had forged, and which was of a peculiar construction, but still very efficacious in its work. men are notoriously awkward in their manner of wringing and other laundry work, and i expect we were no exception to the general rule. we made our clothes _clean_, and that was all we required. alec was a capital baker, so we had some excellent bread, while my pastry was not to be sneezed at; in fact, at a rabbit pie i was quite a _grand chef_. i also introduced several new culinary matters to alec, some of which he had never seen before; among them being the all-filling norfolk dumpling, which at first he did not seem to care for, but in time he became inordinately fond of them, and would often ask me to make him a _pouding de rien_ (a pudding of nothing), which was his idea of these articles of everyday diet in east anglia. but i am not building my breakwater of dumplings, so will get back to stone; not that i wish the reader to infer that my dumplings were ever approaching that substance in their degree of firmness. first we collected all the very large stones we could find in the bay, and placed them as a foundation for our breakwater; but these only formed a layer about a foot deep. all these were large stones (some of them weighed nearly three hundredweight), so to cope with them we made a kind of four-handled hand barrow, upon which we rolled our rock, and then taking two handles each, staggered off with it. these large pieces we placed near the end of the breakwater, and when we had denuded the bay, we obtained, with "eddy's" help, some large piece of massed rock and mortar from the ruined boathouse. these pieces we took in the sledge, and built into a kind of wall to form the outer shell of the breakwater, while the interior we filled with any odds and ends of rocks (none of them less than a man's head in size) which we could find on the shore. the interstices we filled with shingle, and the detritus of granite, but when we had raised our structure to the level of high water our available stone gave out. this rather nonplussed us, but at last we decided to open a small quarry and see what granite we could obtain to raise our undertaking another four feet in height. i had still several pounds of gunpowder left, and with part of this we constructed some long thin cartridges for blasting. with these, a pick-axe, and some long iron stanchions, which we used as levers, we obtained a good supply of stone. the little quarry may still be seen, so i am informed, although it is greatly covered with furze and weeds. it is situated on the hill side, midway between the homestead and the ruins of the boathouse. we chose an elevated position for our quarry, so that we could roll the huge stones down the hill to the pathway below, where we levered them up into the sledge, and dragged them to what we were pleased to term "the works." let it suffice to say that about the middle of may our task was completed, and to commemorate the event we gave a grand banquet on the pier head (for we called it a pier now, as it sounded more dignified) to commemorate the event. four of us sat down to the banquet, or rather two stood and two sat. as architect i took the head of the table (a wine cask), and alec, as engineer, the foot; while "eddy," the donkey, as contractor, supported me on the right (dining luxuriously on a bunch of carrots and some hay), and on my left was dear old "begum" as clerk of the works, enjoying two whole rabbits as his share of the entertainment. we drank "success to jethou pier," and trusted it would take every care of the "anglo-franc," which we now placed within its encircling arm for the first time. at low water we removed all the big stones from the little haven in which our boat was now moored. this was for fear she might hurt her bottom (as the tide left her careened half an hour before dead low water), and thus made everything snug for her. at half-tide she floated, so that for six hours out of every twelve we could go off just when we liked, without any pushing or hard work of any kind; while to assist her to her moorings, if we wished to bring her in at low tide, we rigged up the windlass which we brought from the wreck, and thus we could at any time haul her bodily out of the sea. now, having given up a whole chapter to hard work, we will proceed to something a little more interesting and exciting. [illustration: decorative scroll] [illustration: decorative chapter heading] chapter xv. trawling for fish and dredging for curios--some remarkable finds--a ghastly resurrection--the mysterious paper--the hieroglyphic--a dangerous fall--hors de combat--attempts to unravel the paper. as there were now two of us we occasionally had a turn at trawling, and usually caught some fine flat fish, turbot, soles, and plaice. our net was a very primitive one of our own manufacture, and had to be handled very gingerly, as the netting was old and the ironwork very fragile, but knowing this we did not put undue strain upon it. the curious fish, marine plants, and odds and ends of all kinds that we brought to the surface would have done a naturalist's heart good, for there were frequently objects brought to light that were quite out of the common. it seemed to me that the set of the gulf stream had something to do with this, as we found some rare shells that did not appear indigenous to these waters; we also found two old swords and the steel portion of a flint lock pistol, beside some curious old pottery, all of which finds i have preserved, and with other curios have formed quite a museum. our plan of "marine exploration," as we called it, was this: we would have a couple of hours trawling for fish in the usual manner, and then if wind and tide were favourable, would run in and land our trawl, and fish at the pier head, and bring out with us another implement, which was a cross between a dredge and a trawl. it had an iron beam about six feet wide, which kept the net on the bottom by reason of its weight; from this rose an iron bow, forming a flattened half circle, and to this was attached a piece of heavy double netting, the bottom of which was protected from the rocks by a piece of old sail cloth a little larger than the plan of the net. the poke of the net was only about seven feet from beam to tail, so that we had no difficulty in raising it, especially as we had a line fastened to the tail, which one of us could haul upon, while the other (with a curious hand windlass, which looked like some diabolical instrument of torture) raised the beam. we used to drain the net fairly well before bringing it inboard, and then turn the contents out on the floor, then kneeling down we would search among them just like a couple of misers counting their gold; indeed, upon one occasion, we _did_ have gold to count among our other items. it was the bowl portion of a golden goblet, from which the foot had become detached. from its encrusted appearance it must have lain for many years in the sea. on another occasion we felt something heavy in the net as we hauled, and knowing that in the spot in which we were then trawling, there were no rocks, we naturally wondered what it could be. as we hove up the net, i remarked that i hoped it was not a dead body, which remark made alec feel quite queer, as he thought it might be one of his comrades. he refused to help me haul for fear such should be the case. i quickly pointed out to him that it could not be the case, as apart from a corpse being devoured by the voracious fish, it would swell as it decomposed, and gas being formed in it, it would buoy the body up, and float it to the surface, when the send of the waves would waft it away, no one knew whither. "now," said i to alec, "your messmates have been dead these four months, and nothing of them now remains round this island, except perchance their skeletons, and we are not likely to come upon _them_, so bear a hand and let's see what luck has sent us." slowly the net came up, and as the water left it there appeared among the brown seaweed two huge pieces of rock tied to something which looked very horrid. and horrid it turned out to be, for it was the remains of the man i had buried months before, that is to say, the leg bones, with some few remaining tendons and other parts, which the fish had not stripped from the bones. we were glad to find that the upper part with the skull attached had fallen off, so turning the net inside out, i for a second time buried the poor man, or rather all that was left of him. one day in july, a very warm day, we had been fishing and caught but little, so were having an hour's chat and smoke as our boat rocked lazily on the clear blue water, when somehow the conversation turned on curious discoveries and accidental finds. suddenly the thought of my valuable discovery of the lace entered my head. should i tell alec? no! i would keep my secret; but what of the paper i had discovered in the niche in the wall? could not alec decipher that for me? should i tell him of that? why not? by keeping the paper to myself i should not know if it were of value or no, so revolving the matter in my mind as to how i should broach the subject, i at last made up my mind to consult him upon the subject, but said nothing of it just then. we set to work again, after a rest, and fished, but fortune that day was not kind to us, or the fish were as lazy as ourselves; anyhow, we caught very few; in fact, not more than we could consume in a fresh state. when we obtained plenty we gutted them, split them, took off their heads, and dried them in the sun for future use, just as the natives of the pacific islands do theirs. that evening, when supper was finished, i told alec i had something to shew him, which did not belong to me, but which might or might not be of value to me as the holder. somehow i had, by associating the old leathern cup and the lace together, brought myself to believe that the paper was like the lace, of some value. therefore it behoved me to be careful as to how i broached the subject to alec. i quietly took it from my trunk, and handed it to him carelessly, with the remark, "can you read that for me, alec?" he had a good look at it, holding it very close to the lamp, and read it quite through to himself, while i sat impatiently waiting for him to say something about it. not wishing to appear anxious i pretended to read, but although i looked at the page it might just as well have been a brick i was looking at as a book for all the information i got from it. at length he laid the paper down, and informed me that he could read it well enough, but what did it all refer to? "it is a list of articles followed by some curious signs that i cannot make out," said he. "then it goes on to say that anyone finding the things mentioned, may have them as a gift for his trouble in searching for them. then follows the date, nov. 13, 17--. so probably your musty old paper is at least one hundred years old." then he laid the document on the table, relit his pipe, and went on cutting out a netting needle for to-morrow's use. i merely remarked it was an old paper i had had by me a long time, and as i wanted to know what it was about had kept it. with that i put it away in the trunk, and changed the subject by turning my attention to snooding a score or two of fish hooks for conger fishing. next day when i saw an opportunity i got away to a quiet spot, and puzzled myself with the hieroglyphic-looking portion of the paper which appeared thus:-[illustration:-the puzzling document-] i puzzled over it for an hour, and then gave it up, not having obtained the slightest clue to the meaning, if any meaning it had. then i reflected that a man was not likely to go to the trouble of writing out a long list of articles, and sketching a skull with particular lines and figures radiating from it for nought, to say nothing of hiding the paper away in such a cosy little nook as the one in which i found it. thus reflecting i turned along the middle path homeward, wondering if some old privateer skipper, or even pirate, had long years ago hidden the articles mentioned in the list in some part of the island, or could it refer to some treasure which--_slip! bump! crash!!_ i opened my eyes and found alec bending over me, while "begum" sat licking my hand. i tried to speak, but did so with extreme difficulty, as if something were amiss with my chest. whatever had happened! i tried to rise, but had not the power. "how do you feel?" said alec. [illustration: a terrible fall from the cliffs.] to which i replied by asking him a question, "whatever is the matter, alec, am i hurt?" at which he laughed and said, "i ought to know better than he could tell me; perhaps i would inform him what i was doing there, and why, for more than half an hour since he found me i had been insensible?" then i remembered slipping carelessly over the edge of the path at a part that was not at all dangerous, and bumping myself against a granite rock, but beyond that i remembered nothing whatever. alec had missed me for nearly three hours, so calling to "begum," he strolled along to see what i was doing. it was our invariable custom to tell each other where we were going, and what we were going to do, whenever we separated for a time; but on this occasion i had purposely omitted this precaution. the dog had found me on the lower pathway doubled up, or as alec put it, "standing on my head in a very undignified position, with my back against a granite boulder." i could not rise, in fact could scarcely move, so battered and bruised was i in my fall of about fifty yards. of course this was not a perpendicular fall, or i should never have penned these lines; but as the slope was one that a man could not walk up without using his hands, it is a wonder to me to this day that i was not killed on the spot. evidently i had broken my swift fall by clutching at some furze bushes, for my right hand was dreadfully lacerated, and full of furze needles, and my shoulder so stiff that my arm seemed paralyzed; besides which, i found i was spitting blood, which frightened me very much, as i was afraid of some internal injury. the cart was fetched, and alec assisted me on it; but oh dear me! i thought the jolting would have shaken me literally to pieces, so i sang out "halt! wo!" and told alec i could go no farther, and then i fainted away. it was only of five minutes' duration, but when i came to i felt as if i was dying, and told alec i thought my time had come, which greatly alarmed the good fellow. "do you mind my leaving you a few minutes," said he, "while i fire the big gun for assistance?" "no, no, alec, i will not consent to that; for if my time has come, all the doctors[4] in the world cannot save me; and if i am not so badly hurt as i fear, i shall pull through. assist me to get on 'eddy's' back." by great exertion on the part of alec, and great forbearance from crying out on mine, i was presently mounted on the donkey, and being supported on alec's broad shoulder as he walked on the left side, i was at length able to reach the house. although in dreadful pain, i could not resist asking alec if he did not notice how well our group on the rocky path realized the parable of the good samaritan. here we were carrying out the story exactly. i was the "certain man" wounded; alec the good samaritan; and "eddy" the beast. the house being reached, next came the dreadful dismounting, and being supported to bed; but even this was at last safely managed, and lying on the coverlet for a time i felt much easier. alec busied himself like a trained nurse, he took off my boots, gave me some brandy, washed the blood from my head and hands, and then without my knowledge gave me a sleeping draught from my medicine chest. when i awoke it was still daylight, and alec had prepared me a good supper, with which, like a good fellow, he fed me, and then we held a consultation as to the nature of my hurts. we tried each leg, but beyond great black bruises there were no bones broken; my hands were a mass of cuts and scratches, and my head was in no better condition; but when we came to the right arm we found something radically wrong at the shoulder, which had now become greatly swollen, while as i sat on the edge of the bed the limb hung loosely down in a way that caused us to think it was broken; at any rate it was perfectly useless. we consulted dr. ogilvie's book upon all kinds of accidents that bones are heir to, and came to the conclusion that either my collar bone was broken or displaced, or my arm was out of the socket at the shoulder. alec soon set to work, and ripped my coat and shirt off, and after a deliberate diagnosis of my upper man, concluded that my shoulder was out of joint and must be put in. again my comrade wished to fire the big gun for assistance, but i made up my mind to attempt my own cure with his help, as i had seen several cases of a similar nature treated on the hunting field. my arm is a strong one, and i must draw a veil over the agony which resulted from the clumsy way in which we hauled the poor limb about; but we clicked the bone in at last, and then faint from pain i must have gone off into a deep sleep, for the last i remember was feeling alec wipe the perspiration from my forehead as i fell back on my pillow in a faint. for days i kept my bed, as every part of my anatomy had received a tremendous battering when i took my flight over the jagged stones that barred my way. my constant thought as i lay on the bed with the glorious sunshine streaming in from the open window, which gave me a view of the dark trees standing out against the azure sunlit sky, was about the hieroglyphics on the paper. what did the skull portend, and what did the letters and figures refer to? the skull i set down as the point to which the most importance was to be attached, and as i believed it referred to some hidden articles or treasure stowed away more than a century ago, i was naturally very eager to find out its whereabouts. well, say the skull represented the treasure spot, what did the square surrounding it mean? i gave it up. "then what," i asked myself, "is the meaning of the letters at certain angles round the square both inside and out?" these i assumed to be the bearings of certain objects, as the person stood at the spot in which the goods were hidden; the figures i conjectured were the number of feet or yards distant of the "treasure spot" from the various objects. next, where was it most likely a man would hide anything of value, beneath the sea or upon dry land? land certainly. would it be among the rocks or where the ground was softer? certainly the latter, i should say. then i set to thinking of the different places on the island where the nature of the soil would allow of digging, and could call to mind but few, and these mostly on the higher parts of the island. i determined when i was able to get about that i would inspect all these places, and see if i could find objects to correspond with the bearings and distances given in the sketch. having thus promised myself to pursue the search further at a more appropriate time, i dismissed the subject from my mind for the time being. after several days of enforced idleness i was at length able once more to go out, but at first felt very weak in the legs for want of exercise. [illustration: decorative scroll] footnote: 4: speaking of island doctors reminds me that dr. moyle has recently retired from practice in the isles of scilly, where he has been the sole medical practitioner for over forty years. he is spoken of with love and respect by all the islanders, and no wonder, for he has been a wonderful old man. his patients were scattered over the five inhabited islands, and never once did he fail to go when summoned. on many a wild winter night has he been called up to cross the rough sea to attend, perhaps, on some poor fisherman's child. dressed in an oilskin coat, sou'wester and big boots, he was always ready to go, and scarcely looked like a medical man. the people have shown their regard for him in a handsome manner. without the aid of bazaars or other such institutions, they have raised funds enough to present him with a life-long annuity of â£52. [illustration: decorative chapter heading] chapter xvi. yarns: the cabbages which hung their heads--the raft of spruce--voyage of the "dewdrop"--a lucky family--a deep, deep draught--the maire's cat. alec behaved splendidly while i was unable to help myself. he fished, and by hook or by crook--or rather, by hook and by net--procured whatever i cared for, beside which he killed the surviving pig, which had now grown into an immense fellow, so that we had a good supply of meat, although somewhat fat; but of this i ate little, preferring a more vegetable diet, although at times i took a little meat, but not often. when the day's work was over he would sit in the twilight and spin yarns to me of his own curious experiences, one or two of which i cannot refrain from repeating here. "did you ever do any smuggling?" i asked him one day. "well," said he, "that's rather personal, is it not? but still, i may as well tell you truly--i have. but as it is now very risky work, and some of my experience is recent, i shall not tell you of my own adventures in that line of business, though i see but little harm in outwitting a revenue officer, and at the same time enabling your neighbours to obtain a luxury or two, which otherwise they would never have. did i ever do any smuggling? rather! and my father and grandfather before me. in fact, in the village of my birth a man is thought little of who has not, at some time or other, been 'smarter than a revenue officer.'" these remarks aroused my curiosity, so i asked, "were you ever caught at the game?" "no," said he, "but i'll tell you how my father was once bowled over by the sun taking part against him. it was in the month of august, 185-, that he had, by manoeuvring, brought ashore quite a nice little lot of contraband during the night, and not liking to keep it in the house, placed a couple of men on watch while he buried it in the garden. he had a little plot of cabbages near one side of the garden, and he uprooted about a dozen of these in the middle of the patch; then, digging a somewhat shallow hole, he placed his goods in, and re-casting the mould back, replanted the cabbages, not forgetting to remove the surplus mould in pails. so far so good; but early the next morning a customs officer had, by some means, heard that my father had been seen in his boat on the previous day, in close proximity to a trading vessel which had signalled for water, one of her casks having been started by the heat. of course my father was very pleased to see the officer (or apparently so), and after showing him over the place, invited him to stay to breakfast, which he gladly did. about ten o'clock he took his departure, apparently quite as satisfied with his visit, as my father was pleased at his departure. all seemed very easy now--simply to wait till dark, when one or two friends would divide the haul and take it away in some secret manner. but a little after noon back came the officer, accompanied by another. here was evidently something in the wind, and my father felt very anxious. "'very sorry to trouble you, m. ducas, but duty is duty, you know. will you kindly accompany us over your premises?' "'certainly.' "then they searched high and low, but nothing could they find. dinner was being served. would they join us at table? "'thanks, very pleased to.' "so they sat down. my father, after dinner, handed them a bottle of the 'right sort,' of which they were connoisseurs, and they enjoyed it. it was a hot day, and everything was greatly in want of rain, and being so hot and dry they strolled out into the garden, preparatory to taking their leave. "'how are monsieur's pigs? oh, ah, very fine fellows! do you give them much green food?' "yes, a fair amount,' my father replied, and pulling up the nearest cabbage to him, threw it to the animals. "'what a pity to waste such a fine cabbage,' said the chief officer. 'why not give them one of those which are languishing so for want of water?' and reaching over he made a big pull at one, which, to his astonishment, came out of the ground without any resistance. 'hello! what's this, ducas? why, all the middle ones seem to be in a sad way! see, they are-hanging their heads. perhaps the soil is not congenial to their growth. _have you a spade?_' "it was all up. the spade had to be forthcoming, and the end of it was,--'fined two hundred francs or thirty-five days in prison.'" "well, alec, that's not half bad. spin us another." "ah, well, i could spin you enough yarns to make a frigate's cable, and a thick one too, if you would only listen to them." "very good. then let me have another strand towards the said ship's cable; but don't spin it _too thick_." "let's see, which one shall i give you? oh, i know; but it's one that did _not_ end in a fine, though it was a very close shave. i was quite a youngster, but anything but a green hand at the business, for i had accompanied my father on many occasions on which he did not bring home merely soles or _longue-nez_ for freight. just before the occasion of which i am about to tell you there had been a gale, and during the worst of the blow a norwegian vessel had jettisoned her deck load of spruce poles, and we being out fishing a day or two after, happened, as luck would have it, to fall in with some of them. as we had some spare rope aboard we made a kind of raft of them, and commenced towing them towards the harbour, which was only five or six miles distant. "now it so happened that a fishing boat passed us as we tugged our timber along, and what is more remarkable, upon my father holding up a white pail a man at the stern of the lugger did the same, then altering her canvas she made a tack (where one was not required), and coming very close to us dropped overboard a series of black tin cases, which were no doubt hermetically sealed, to preserve their contents. these cylinders were so nicely balanced that the rounded sides of them just showed above the water, and no more. some more cabalistic signs then passed between my father and the lugger's skipper, as she stood away on her course, and in an hour was out of sight round the cape. we made fast the cylinders (which were attached to a rope) _underneath_ the raft, and standing in for shore and entered the little port. "we moored our logs, and my father at once went to the authorities and reported the finding of _a raft_, and as usual an officer came down to inspect and put a mark on the timbers. his inspection was finished, and he was about to go upon other business when a boy who had, with some companions, been scampering about the raft, fell into the water. at once a number of men jumped on the raft, which was nearly submerged by the additional weight; but what was worse the cordage binding the logs together gave way, and behold, bobbing among the floating men were seen a series of floating cylinders! the men were hauled out of the water, and so were the curious tin cases, while with the latter my father was hauled off to appear before the magistrates on a charge of smuggling." "a clear case i should say, alec," i remarked. "well, so everyone thought; but, strange to say, my father was discharged with a caution. the turning point of the case was, did we pick up separate logs of timber and construct the raft, or did we find the raft _already made_? our case was that we had picked up the _whole_ raft at sea, and not having examined it, were not supposed to know what was hanging beneath it. beside which, had not m. ducas gone straight away and given notice to the proper authorities? we obtained the benefit of the doubt, but it was a very close squeak." "it was indeed. now do you not remember any little adventure of your own you could tell me?" "adventures! i could fill a whole book with them; some of them so strange that they would appear to most people more like falsehoods than solid fact." "but, you know, alec, it is only a hair line that frequently separates the sublime from the ridiculous, and perhaps the line that divides your true tales of the marvellous from story book fiction is so thin, that ordinary persons cannot quite detect it; but never mind, let's have something mild, and i'll undertake to swallow everything you tell me, even if i have to bite it in two first." "there, now, you're laughing at me before i begin, and you shall not have a strand of a yarn, so you may go to sleep again at once." then i had to coax him, and he soon came round. he could not bear to be doubted, much less laughed at. "tell me about bringing that little cockle-shell of a yacht from london to guernsey, that you were speaking about the other day." "oh! the 'dewdrop.' why, that's no yarn at all." then, thought i to myself, here's something really true: and so i afterwards proved it to be. "the 'dewdrop' was one of the smallest yachts that ever ventured across the channel in the month of march. i left london with a fair wind from the west, and got along the london river well enough; but once past the nore i found it quite lumpy enough to make things very wet and uncomfortable, and after leaving dover behind i had serious thoughts of putting into folkestone, or one of the south coast ports, but as i am not one to take a task in hand and then give it up, i shaped my course for guernsey, making up my mind to give cape la hogue a wide berth. there was a high west wind blowing, and a choppy sea rolling the white horses along at a great pace, so that it required some amount of attention to handle a light built twenty-foot yacht. everything stood as we bowled along, but having no one to help me i felt dreadfully tired and hungry, for i could not leave the tiller to get a proper meal. two or three hours more and the wind backed a little to the south south-west and blew harder than ever, while, in proportion as the wind rose, so did the sea, so that the poor little 'dewdrop,' with nearly a head wind, was labouring heavily. how i got through the night i cannot tell, for with cold and hunger i was nearly dead, and what was more, _i was lost_. when i say lost, i could not tell within a score miles where i was. i looked for the casquet light, but could not see it. then i strained my eyes ahead, trying to penetrate the darkness and discern alderney light, but in vain. turning my head to the left i looked out for the lights of cape la hogue, but again was disappointed. where was i? i could not tell, but i fancied i knew where _i should be_ in a very short time, for the seas were such as to make it a marvel how such a cockle-shell could float in such a turmoil of black seething water. it was a terrible night, for death rode near me on every crested wave, any one of which breaking aboard would have formed my winding sheet. to make matters worse, towards morning a dense sea fog set in, and i so far gave myself up as to say my prayers at least half a dozen times in as many half hours. "although apparently very reluctant to do so, the sun did rise at last, and behold, as the fog melted away, not two miles off, on my starboard beam, was alderney. i never felt such a thrill of joy in my life as when i saw the breakwaters at the entrance to braye harbour, extending their arms as if to receive me into their snug embrace. i was glad to get into smooth water once again, and inside a harbour to boot, for i had never expected to set foot on dry land again. the old hands could scarcely believe that i had crossed the channel in such a gale; but there i was, and there was the 'dewdrop' to prove my assertion, therefore they could not doubt it. i pumped her out, and repaired the little craft as well as i could, and on the third day of being in port had eaten everything eatable aboard, and as there was no chance of resuming the voyage yet i had to get some food on 'tick.' this was all very well for a day or two, but after i had been a week in braye, with no prospect of getting away, the landlord of the tavern from which i obtained my food, told me that as i was a perfect stranger to him he could not afford, to keep me any longer on credit. what security could i give him for further food? this was a poser, but the end of it was that i left my whole kit in pawn with him, including even my watch. at length, on the twelfth morning after my arrival the sea became calm enough for me to proceed, and with a west wind i was in guernsey harbour four hours after leaving braye. i think this was the most adventurous voyage i ever made, as it took me sixteen days to make two hundred and fifty miles. i think if the pay was a guinea an hour i should not care about again crossing the channel during an equinoxial gale, especially to be skipper and crew of such a midge as the 'dewdrop.'" "that's what i call a decent little yarn, alec,--_multum in parvo_--one that might be drawn out into quite a long story, and if it were in the hands of some men they would so spin it out, that the telling would occupy almost as many hours as you were days on the voyage. nothing like condensing the agony and expanding the joy in a yarn, it makes the listeners in a better mode, and more sociable with each other." "sociability," said alec, "among seafaring men is pretty general. it is usually 'hail, fellow, well met!' with us, for we endeavour to get all the fun we can out of life, because we know that whenever he gets the chance, death will have his gibe at us. a sailor must, of necessity, often face death, and therefore his motto is, 'eat, drink, and be merry, for to-morrow we die'; and death does come to him frequently when least he expects it. i'll tell you an instance of this in which i and some of my relatives were concerned. "nine miles from the shore of my native village there is a most dreadful sand-bank, in the form of the letter u, which at low tide is frequently bare, while at high tide not more than two fathoms of water cover it. it has been a death-trap to many a stout vessel, and at the time i am speaking of had nothing near it in the form of a lighthouse, lightship, or even a buoy to mark its dread presence. at daybreak on a rough november morning the look-out on duty discovered that a small trading schooner was fast on the sands, and after the usual half-hour's excitement in the village the surf boat, containing eleven men, was launched and proceeded to the wreck. there was quite a little party of my family aboard, as beside myself, the crew also contained my father, brother, and two cousins. "to make a long story short, i will simply say, that after a three hours' exhausting pull we reached the vessel, but were grieved to find that of the crew of six hands, only one was left alive. our attention was therefore turned to the saving of this poor sailor, who had lashed himself to the bowsprit, where he had sat all through the cold night, and was so benumbed that he could scarcely speak. we shouted to him, and made him understand that if he would cut his lashings, we would when opportunity served, pull the boat under the bowsprit so that as we glided by he might drop in and be saved. his knife was quickly at work, and to show that he was free he held up his hands and moved himself on the bowsprit. we gave him a cheer, and watching our best time, glided in on the crest of a wave to deliver the poor fellow. alas! in his excitement he jumped too soon, and dropped between the bows of the vessel and our heavy boat. his head was for a second visible on the surface, but before an arm could be stretched out to save him the two vessels came crash together, with his head between them. a gush of blood was all we saw of him, for the next moment we were all in the sea, struggling for our own lives. our boat had stove its bows in against the ship, which we had approached too closely, in our endeavour to save the poor man. "i was fortunate enough to secure an oar, and working gradually to leeward of the wreck, with great exertion at length got aboard, where, to my joy, i found my father. the boat still floated bottom upwards, with five men upon the keel, who were constantly lashed by the cold waves, till presently a larger wave than the others broke the hold of two of the men, and washed them into eternity. gradually in the swirl and foam of the mighty waters the boat beat round to the leeward of the ship, and i then saw that the men on the keel were my two cousins and brother. they could all swim, and seeing that my father and i were ready with ropes, quitted their precarious seat on the keel, and struck out towards the ship. my brother and cousin phillipe, after a terrible struggle, were drawn aboard, but gabriel, who could not swim so strongly, presently became exhausted and cried out for a rope. the distance appeared too far to fling it, but with a powerful swing my father threw the coil, the end of which fell a yard short of the swimmer. if i live a thousand years i shall never forget the look of despair upon my cousin's face as he sank back in the water completely exhausted. as his head disappeared his hand, like an eagle's claw, came above the surface of the water and gave one wild clutch at the rope which should have proved his salvation, then it disappeared also, and he was no more. "thus, out of eleven men, only four were saved. incredible as it may seem, these were all of them relatives--my brother, father, cousin, and self--it was quite a family party. we were taken off the wreck in the afternoon by another boat and safely landed. ducas was a lucky name that day, and so it proved three years after, for my brother was the _only_ survivor when his fishing boat was run down, and a crew of eight men perished." seeing that we had just had one melancholy recital i thought it best to start something more pleasant, so i handed alec a large mug of coffee, and said: "take a drink, my comrade, and while you are slaking your thirst i will spin you a drinking story." then i recounted to him the story of count tilly of brabant, and the holy prior. how, during one of tilly's numerous campaigns, a certain town held out far too long for the general's liking, but at last it was forced to surrender. tilly had six of the chief men brought before him, and commanded, as the town had laughed at his terms, that they should die, to expiate the rest of the citizens. all kinds of conditions were laid before him to avoid the doom of these unfortunate men, but they were of no avail with him; he was implacable. one, prior hirsch, sought him and tried to melt his adamantine heart, and being a man of experience with human foibles, concluded to try the effect of some of the good old wine for which the country is famous, and his own monastery in particular. a huge flagon being introduced, filled with some of the very "a1" of the district, tilly was induced to try some. "very good wine indeed," exclaimed the general, "but it is no use your trying to get round me in that way to pardon your burgesses, for i can no more turn from my word than you can empty this goodly flagon at a draught." "is the case indeed so hopeless?" said the priest. "yes, indeed," said the count rising, "drink me the contents of this flagon at a draught, and your citizens are free; else at noon they swing," and with a mocking smile on his lips he was about to stride out of the room, when the priest arrested his steps with, "one moment, good count, and i will e'en essay the task." then, taking up the flagon, which held _thirteen pints_, he emptied it to the very dregs, and fell back into his townsmen's arms. tilly was as good as his word, and released his captives. "whew!" whistled alec; "where's the salt box? thirteen pints at a draught--thirteen pints! why, your old priest would make a good second to our maire's cat!" "what did his cat do?" queried i, innocently. "oh, i thought everyone had heard of curat's cat," premised alec. "you must know that his cat was growing old and spiteful, so he determined to kill it; but although he tried various means, and got very near accomplishing his end on several occasions the cat would always appear again to trouble him. one evening, as a final effort in assassination, before retiring to bed, he tied a heavy piece of iron round the cat's neck, and dropped it into a water-butt which stood in his garden. next morning he was down betimes, and standing on the tiptoe both of expectation and of his boots, he peeped over the edge of the tub, when lo! there, on the bottom of the butt sat the cat looking up at him with tears in her eyes, for she was too heavily anchored to climb out." but i broke in, "where was the water?" "well, you see," said alec, "being her only means of escape, _she had swallowed it_, as your priest did the wine, which accounted for her swollen condition. so now, mr. thirteen pints, i think we are about quits." we were; alec scored a point. [illustration: decorative scroll] [illustration: decorative chapter heading] chapter xvii. the will again--searching for a clue to the paper--barbe rouge's will--a probable clue--hopes and doubts--perplexed--a memorable trawl by moonlight--a real clue at last--the place of the skull found. as soon as i was able i went out walking each day, and so rapid was my convalescence that in ten days i was quite myself again. alec had during my enforced idleness been extra busy, and had made both house and garden look very trim. he had not been able to go far away, for fear i might want him, and thus had spent his time near home. from joking in the first instance we had now become quite familiar with our new appellations; thus i was crusoe, and alec was monday, that being the day on which i saved him. for the sake of being as near like the hero of juan fernandez as possible, i should have liked to call him friday; in fact, good friday, but as he came on the wrong day, monday had to be his name. as i write these pages, i can, in fancy, hear his voice shouting to me on the island, "crusoe! crusoe! where are you? rob--in--son cru--soe, ahoy!" being august, the fruit was ripe and very plentiful; in fact, it seemed a sin to see it hang on the bushes and trees till it dropped upon the ground, simply to serve the purpose of manure. to obviate this we made a whole copper full of jam, and in making it we got into a pretty pickle, both of us being up to our elbows in stickiness, but the jam _was_ prime! whatever i did, or wherever i went, the paper i had found in the old leathern cup always haunted me. moreover, when it did not haunt _me_, i haunted _it_; for i took it to various parts of the island, and taking my stand in a certain place, would represent the spot shewn by the skull in the drawing. then monday would measure in various directions to see if he could get the measurements correct to certain rocks or tree stumps, to see if they tallied with the paper, but it was no use, nothing would coincide with that faded paper. we tried the creviã§hon, but nothing there agreed; then la fauconnaire, but could make nothing of that either, so we had again to let the matter rest. one day, however, it suddenly struck me that as none of the trees on the island were one hundred years old, i might have spared myself the trouble of attempting them when making my calculations and measurements. by the way, perhaps it would be as well to state what the precise contents of my document were. here is a copy:- "this is the will of jean tussaud, master mariner of c--- (sometimes called barbe rouge). to the person who is lucky enough to find my treasure house, i herewith declare him to be my heir, and whatsoever he may find shall be his, and for his sole benefit. "my chief mate, william trefry, a cornish man, wished to become my heir before my death, but i could not agree with him on that point, although i left him in possession of the key of my 'petites fã©es' (little fairies). the key and a valuable knife are all i gave him. "the bearings of my treasure house are these:- [illustration:-the puzzling document-] "the lucky one will find the following property.... (here follows a list of many valuable articles, and winds up with), 'and lastly my pretty box of _petites fã©es_.' "i leave jethou to-night to join my vessel, which is about to make a voyage to the west indies, to see what business can be done there. i leave this paper, so that should i never return, the goods i have so industriously and riskily gathered together, may still be of service to someone who may have skill enough to discover their whereabouts. signed "jean tussaud (barbe rouge), "feb. 19, 17--." here was a puzzle to which for weeks i could obtain no clue whatever, but one day as i was sitting under the shade of the huge walnut tree overlooking the garden, the idea came into my mind that this kind of tree flourishes for generations, and from the gigantic proportions of this particular tree, it must be a great deal more than a century old. i found monday, and asked him how old he thought it would be, and he gave it as his opinion that it was one hundred and fifty years old, if it was a day. then said i, "what is the french for walnut tree?" "noyer," was his reply, and into my pocket went my hand to bring out the mystic document to see if there was an n on the chart. joy, there was, and at sight of it my hand trembled violently, and i felt ready to choke with excitement, as i believed i had now a key to the finding of the treasure. monday was as excited as myself, all he could exclaim was, "oh, la, la! oh, la, la!" which was with him a mark of supreme delight. we fetched the yard measure, and commenced our survey, as i shrewdly guessed the fine old mulberry tree had something to do with the calculations; if so the distance from the mulberry tree (murier accounting for the letter m) to the walnut tree would be twenty-four yards; so we measured, but could not make the distance correct, as we made it 26-2/3 yards, or just eight feet too much. this quite nonplussed us, and our excitement greatly abated; but we were not yet vanquished, and set our wits to work to discover the meaning of another of the letters from which we could take further measurements. being near n (the walnut tree) i walked round the garden wall to the point marked ec, but could there find no landmark at all from which to measure. a century ago something may have stood there, but now it was a bare spot. here was another rebuff which seemed to upset my theory altogether, and monday with long visage said, "crusoe, you are on the wrong scent, you have 'shaken hands with a shadow.'" "wait a bit, monday. 'a cracked pitcher will hold _some_ water,' and although i may be wrong on some of the points, i may find at least _one_ correct one presently." we then walked along to the corner of the wall at the angle of which was the letter p. at this point stood the well. "what is french for '_well_', monday." "puit." "puit?" at this i gave a yell of delight. "eureka! i believe. measure away, good comrade; measure away!" "where to, noble crusoe?" "ah, where," said i to myself. "well, measure off twelve yards towards the centre of the garden, and see if it cuts the line between the mulberry tree and the big walnut." we measured to the wall and climbed over, and continued our measuring, but alas, it went beyond the bee-line between the two trees by about five feet! wrong again! now i began to get angry, as i saw monday was laughing up his sleeve at me, and i called him _alec_ to shew him i was not in a laughing humour but thoroughly in earnest. i walked along next inside the wall to about the point on the paper marked p, which appeared to me to be at the window of the house. "what is window, alec?" "fenãªtre." that would not do. "now look here, alec, you are laughing at me again, and i don't like it; laugh some other time, but for the present give me your full attention, and don't be a ninny. it is no joking matter, but one upon which i am very serious and anxious, as i believe there is something attached to this quest which is really worth a little trouble to elucidate." "and," replied he, still smiling, "when you get to the end of your quest, i believe you will 'shake hands with a shadow' as i told you before. but, bold crusoe, i _will_ do my best to help you as a good comrade should, so i will bottle up my hilarious mood till you find your treasure, and then i will explode." "very well, monday," i replied. "i trust soon to be able to make you have a perfect earthquake when i shew you old barbe rouge's 'petites fã©es.' fenãªtre will not do. now what are we standing near that commences in french with the letter p?" monday looked about and quickly said, "la porte, the door, porche, the porch; how will they do?" "capital! now we are surely on the right track." so again we brought our measuring stick into play, but again the measure was not quite right, but still not far out. we made it nearly eleven yards instead of ten, and although not perfectly correct, it gave me great hope. with but little trouble we made out the letters pm to be porte magasin (door of the store house), and again we were about a yard too much in the measurement. so we left it, and proceeded to the last point, the letters cc. the point was outside the walls, and the longest distance of all--the figures twenty being written on the line. as in the other instances i asked monday the names of all kinds of objects to locate the letters cc, but failed in this, except that i presumed c might be chaumiã¨re = cottage. next taking our stand at the point which we supposed the centre of the diagram--the place of the skull--we measured twenty yards towards the cottage, but it fell short of the nearest point of the building by nearly six feet; therefore probably it did not refer to the cottage at all. we assumed therefore, that a tree or some such object, to which the letters cc referred, once stood on what was now a pathway joining the cottage. we paused in our search for the day, resolving on the morrow to try our luck by digging a deep hole in the garden at the spot which we _thought_ was the axis of the different radial measurements. "begum" followed us about like a district surveyor, and seemed to know something was on foot as well as himself. our work of fishing, shooting, and field work seemed quite in the background, and very insignificant compared with my treasure hunt; but alec seemed to be quite indifferent to it; in fact, i think he had an idea that my fall had slightly shaken my brain, and perhaps addled it. i more than suspected this, for i noticed he kept his eye ever on me, and would scarcely let me out of his sight. good, faithful fellow! "what say you to a sail this evening, crusoe?" "just the thing, monday; it is such a glorious night, and the cool breeze will do us good. what do you say to a drag with the trawl?" "the very thing; more fish are caught in one night than in two days, so let's set to at once, that is, after a good substantial tea." the meal being finished, we soon got the trawl and gear aboard the "anglo-franc," and away we went in the lovely moonlight, scouring the bottom of the perchã©e between the head of jethou and the tail of herm. the latter island looked delightful in the pale greenish light of the moon, while creviã§hon towering up against the sky, with the moon behind it, caused it to look like a silhouette cut out of black cardboard. "who would be stifled up in a town with wealth and its attending cares, in preference to this life of liberty i was leading?" i asked myself, and for answer gave, "while one is young, full of health, and with no encumbrances, a bohemian life is all very well; but what when a wife and family are dependent on one? that puts a different complexion on the matter, for one can roam no more." i recollect this night well, for i revelled in its very antithesis to life in england. everything seemed so strange and quiet; the great black rocks casting their shadows over the phosphorescent waves; the star-studded sky, with the pale round moon, across which a gentle breeze wafted silvery gauze-like clouds; the feeling of motion, the sense of freedom, the love of labour to haul the net, the expectation of what would be our luck, the merry badinage between my comrade and me, our little songs between the hauls, and a score of other things cause me to look back upon this night (and many others) with the thought, "shall i ever know such happiness again?" many persons, yes, most persons, must have recollections of past pure delights that steal across their memories of things which happened long years ago, and cause them to ask themselves the same question, "shall i ever know such happiness again?" why not? it always seems to strike me that when we are supremely happy, we do not realise it at the time; but when the happy time has fled, and has become a memory, we long for its return in vain. we long in vain for that _particular_ pleasure, but there are present joys for us to which at the time we do not give heed enough, or instead of _bemoaning the past_ (which has flown) we should live and enjoy the _tangible present_. from moralising to fishing is a long jump, but we must take the leap and attend to our net again. after two or three hauls we had almost enough fish, but alec said, "one more for luck," and he being skipper afloat, i commandant ashore, like a good a.b., i obeyed. we had caught several fair soles, but our last haul brought us up two of the largest it has been my lot to capture. "they are two, but not a pair," remarked alec. neither were they, for when they were measured one was nineteen and a half inches long, and the other exactly twenty-three inches. we christened them adam and eve, and like a couple of cannibals declared our intention of eating them for our supper when we got ashore. as we sailed slowly in against the tide, the question arose who should devour adam and who eve; so we agreed to guess the length of the trawl beam between the irons for choice of fish. i guessed first: "ten feet." "there," said monday, "you have nearly taken my guess out of my mouth, for i was going to say three metres, and that makes it about, let me see, nine feet ten inches." "how much is a metre?" i asked eagerly. "why about thirty-nine inches and a quarter of your measure," was his ready reply. "then," i rejoined, bubbling over with excitement, "i've discovered the measurements in the document. why old barbe rouge was a frenchman, and of course used french measure,--the metre! hurrah!" and i made the rocks echo with my excited hurrahs and loud laughter. adam and eve were duly cooked, but they were not half eaten, for either they were too large or our appetites too small by reason of our great excitement; anyhow, adam would have sufficed for us both, and eve would have made a capital breakfast for us in the morning. as it was, the mangled remains of the patriarchs remained for our dinner the next day, as breakfast was, under the circumstances of what happened next day, quite out of the question. as we did not get to bed till four a.m. we were not up till ten; in fact, i slept but little, as dreams of treasure islands, fairy land, and wonderful nuggets of gold persistently kept me tossing about feverishly, till my comrade ran in and wanted to know if he was to dig the treasure up before i was out of bed. i sprang out of bed and dressed, and in five minutes we were busy with paper and rule. hurrah! with metres instead of yards the distances tallied within a few inches, so that near the centre of the garden we had a number of pegs stuck in the mould all round a currant bush, of perhaps three or four years' growth, which had thus accidentally marked the spot that was indicated by a skull on the paper. now came alec's turn for excitement, and he was _intensely_ excited. i must say i liked my form of excitement best, for monday seemed completely off his head, and was gesticulating like a monkey dancing a hornpipe on hot bricks; he was fairly beside himself. i took mine in a calmer manner, that is, although i was brimful and even bubbling over with it, i did not rave, but kept as cool as possible, and i remember at the time thinking it was due to our different nationalities, the excitable and phlegmatic temperaments predominating in the two individuals and giving character. probably a stranger looking on would have thought us either a couple of fools or a pair of lunatics. off came our jackets, and our sleeves were quickly rolled above our elbows, displaying arms as brown as those of gypsies. monday took the pick and i the shovel, and to work we went. i must not forget to mention that i had told alec that whatever we found i should consider it my duty to give up to m. oudin as the real proprietor of the island, and to this he readily assented, mentioning that he at all events could say nothing to my plans, as he was simply my assistant, my monday. [illustration: decorative scroll] [illustration: decorative chapter heading] chapter xviii. digging for the treasure--a noonday rest--the ghastly tenant of the treasure house--we find the treasure--an account of what we discovered. by noon we had a well-like hole about seven feet deep, and found as we dug that the soil became drier the lower we went, which was unusual, as generally it gets more moist, so that digging at length becomes very arduous. although not more than seven feet deep, the earth we had piled all round made the hole look at least ten feet to the bottom, and it had now become very difficult to throw the earth over the edge of the opening above. it was a hot august day, and the sun poured its almost vertical rays upon us, so that the perspiration broke out at every pore, and bathed us in moisture; but still we toiled on, till, as i say, noon arrived, without our finding any token of treasure trove. then said monday, "what say you now of your quest, crusoe? don't you think it's all moonshine, or rather (wiping the perspiration from his brow) sunshine and shadow?" i was fain to confess that it did seem like it, but asked, "will you help me dig to a depth of ten feet from the surface? and if nothing gives indication of what we are in search, i will then give up." "what, dig down ten feet, and be buried alive in this crumbling grave? just look at it, it is ready even now to tumble its sides in upon us." "well, but," persisted i, "let us shore it up as we go down." "very well then," he rejoined, "but i bargain for one hour's rest before we delve further, and here goes for a swim." then climbing up our improvised ladder away he went to the beach, whither "begum" and i quickly followed, and in five minutes we, who had been so lately in a grave, were swimming about in the deliriously cool water, dog and men thoroughly enjoying the exhilarating reaction. our bathe being over, we strolled up to the house, and made another attack upon adam and eve, and this time finished them; they were delicious. as monday would have his full sixty minutes' cessation, just as shylock would have his pound of flesh, we smoked the rest of the time away, and then resumed our labours. we first took the precaution to shore up the sides of our pit with stout pieces of wreckage and any other wood we could find, for fear of a landslip, which might have resulted in serious if not fatal consequences to us. before we had dug ten minutes my spade struck on something hard and hollow, which quite startled us; but clearing the mould away from the spot, i soon discovered the impediment to be a kind of wooden floor. this we quickly cleared, and found it covered a space about four feet by three. as we lifted the first piece with great expectancy, we found it was oak, about two inches thick, and very little the worse for its long burial, as the surrounding soil was dry. we looked into the narrow aperture left by the taking out of the oaken plank, but could see nothing, as the depth of our pit made it somewhat dark at the bottom, so i knelt down, and thrust my hand through the opening and felt about. presently i felt something hard, like a bundle of sticks, and with a tug drew them through the opening, only to drop them the next minute with a cry of horror, for it was a skeleton's hand that came to view in my grasp. we looked at each other in dismay, as if to say, "how awful! what shall we do now?" then we paused, and looked at each other again, till i broke out with, "there, alec, your prophecy has come true, i _have_ 'shaken hands with a shadow,' or what is very near it--a skeleton. what shall we do next?" "had we not better take up the flooring and see if we have come simply upon a grave or what else is beneath us?" to this i acquiesced. the hole we had dug was about six feet square, to enable both of us to work in it at once; so in this pit or chamber we had plenty of room, and as i have already said, the oak floor we came upon was only four feet by three feet, so that we could stand at the side of the flooring as we removed it piece by piece. at last we had taken up the nine narrow pieces of oak which formed the floor, and there before us lay the entire skeleton of a man, some remnants of the clothes still covering parts of the frame, and a few locks of yellow hair still adhering to the cranium. the skeleton was lying face downward, and neither of us liked to turn it over to see if anything could be gathered from an inspection of the front of it, or to ascertain if anything were hidden beneath it; so we both knelt down, and bodily lifted the light but hideous occupant of this awful pit, and placed it in a sitting posture in one corner. as we did so, first a foot and then a leg dropped off at the knee joint, and fell back into the hole, which sent an indescribable thrill of horror through me, and no doubt it acted upon alec in the same manner. when we came to look at the awful thing, alec noticed something glitter at its breast, and reaching forth his hand, attempted to take it to see what it was. he gave the object a pull, but instead of coming away in his hand, it only had the effect of pulling the ghastly form down upon him, so that the orbless skull came with some force, right into his face. he uttered a cry of dismay, and was about to fly up the ladder, when i arrested his movements by bursting out laughing. the whole thing, although hideous and startling, was rendered ludicrous by the accelerated movements of alec when the grinning jaws snapped right in his face. to save himself from falling into the hole beneath, he clutched the frail form round the body, causing its rags and bones to fall in tatters and pieces on to something below, which gave a metallic ring. [illustration: the tenant of the treasure house.] the first shock of his fright being over, for he thought the man had come to life again, we again propped it up in the corner, and examined it closely. the glittering projection on the breast was the jewelled haft of a dagger, the blade of which was thrust quite through the sternum or breastbone, showing that a most powerful blow had given the poor man, whoever he was, his _quietus_. death must have been instantaneous, for the position of the blade shewed that it had probably passed quite through the heart. another thing also attracted our attention; this was a pair of keys suspended round the neck by a rusty chain. we took possession of both dagger and keys; then placing the bony one in a piece of sail cloth, hoisted him above ground and covered him up. down into the hole we went again, almost breathless with excitement, and recommenced our now light task of making further search for whatever might be of value, being fully persuaded that something really worth having now awaited us. nor were we wrong in our conjecture, for the first things we came upon were four large dishes of metal, resembling gold; but as they had been rolled up like a scroll by some great force, we did not stop to unroll them to enquire of what metal they really were. beside them were five or six golden cups of curious work, being beautifully chased, two of them containing jewels in the band of raised work which encircled the stems. then there were two utensils about a foot high, something in shape between a pitcher and a flagon, which were perfect in form, not a dent being visible in them, their only blemish being the tarnish with which more than a century had marred them, but this could easily be removed. there were many bundles containing lace, but for the most part this was so mouldy and musty, that it came to pieces with very little pulling, so we threw it aside. then we came upon quite an armoury of swords, daggers, and pistols; but as most of them were much rusted, we only selected a few of the better preserved ones, and left the rest. among those we kept were three pairs of pistols, one pair of which were a marvel of workmanship. the barrels were of silver, and engraved all over with fruit and flowers, while the stocks of ivory were also carved in every part, and were quite perfect, not even discoloured like the wood work in the pit. they were wrapped in soft leather, and enclosed in a velvet case which was in a somewhat discoloured and decayed state, but still in a sufficiently whole form to preserve the pistols intact. several swords i kept for decorative purposes, and also some of the huge flintlock pistols. the bottom of the treasure-hole was filled with bundles of what had once been costly garments of silk, velvet, satin, cloth with gold braid, and wonderfully fine linen; but these were now useless, for time had quite spoiled them. among these raiments of a bygone age were a number of copes, chasubles, stoles, and such-like ecclesiastic raiment; there was also a beautifully worked mitre, and as these were in good condition we kept them. their preservation was evidently owing to their being contained in a bullock's hide, which was sewn together apparently by the sinews of the same animal. then we came upon a whole pile of sashes, and breeches, and boots, and goodness knows what in the way of wearing apparel, all in a state of dry rot; in fact, they made such a dust that we ascended to _terra firma_ for a few minutes to get it out of our throats. we now appeared to have cleared the place, but what of the "petite fã©es"? had we seen them or what were they? to make sure we had secured everything, we cleared the hole completely out, and in doing so luckily saw the end of a box protruding from the side of the treasure chamber. a kind of cave or tunnel had been made for the reception of this chest, and it was a wonder we did not miss seeing it altogether. no doubt it contained the "petite fã©es," whatever they were; but to our astonishment it was so heavy we could not move it. we therefore set to work, and cleared away the surrounding earth, and by dint of hard tugging in the confined space, we at length drew it from its hiding place into the centre of the pit. it was securely locked with two huge padlocks. we concluded we would hoist it out of its bed and examine it at our leisure above ground. to compass this we had to erect a kind of tripod of three long pieces of deal, which had evidently at some time been top-sail yards of some vessel probably wrecked on rocky jethou. from this we suspended a block and fall, and soon had our iron chest safely above ground. about this time an unaccountable feeling seized us both; i know not what it was, but it appeared to us that we were doing something wrong, violating the grave of the dead man near us, or something of the kind. we seemed to feel that the bones should again be buried as quickly as possible, for fear someone should see us at our task. why this feeling came over us i know not, but it did, so we fastened the rope attached to the block round the waist of the grinning skeleton, and commenced to lower him into his last home again; but he saved us further trouble by breaking in two just above the hips and falling into the bottom of the well-like hole. we quickly covered him with old clothes and hid him from view. it was a work of some difficulty to get the iron chest to the house, but this we accomplished at last with the donkey's help, and having brought in the other goods, we cleared up for the day, completely tired out. at nine o'clock, an hour after supper, we retired to bed, each of us fancying we should have our rest stopped by hideous dreams; but we were mistaken, for we slept like the dead in the pit till six o'clock, when we arose much refreshed by our long night's rest. it was raining fast, and as the drops pattered on the window pane, they seemed like tears for the poor fellow lying unburied in the hole yonder; but we let him lie unburied, as we knew he was past all harm from catarrh or rheumatism, and every other ailment of this world. we did not go out all day, but devoted our time to examining the great find. the keys (as we suspected) which depended from the neck of the skeleton, belonged to the iron chest; but as they were rusty, we had to clean the wards with oil and ashes, but even then we could not shoot the bolts in the locks, as probably they were rusty. there was but one way left, and that was to raise the lid by force; but even this we did in a gentle manner by filing through the hinges and finishing with a few taps from a heavy hammer. no wonder the chest was so heavy, for the bottom of it was covered with seventeen leather bags, each containing one hundred spanish coins, called doubloons, which i believe are worth for the mere intrinsic value of the metal, about ten shillings each, but their monetary value was about twelve shillings and sixpence each. this was something like a find. at the end of the chest was a portion partitioned off, which contained two drawers, a large and a small one, both of iron, lined with wood. the large one contained three parchment books written in french, the first of which alec declared was an account of the life of barbe rouge, and the other two were log books of his various voyages.[5] in the right hand or small drawer was a very small gold casket of exquisite workmanship, filled quite full of precious stones in their natural rough state, together with a few cut gems of medium size. i should say altogether they would have just filled a half-pint measure; not that i believe they are ever sold in this manner, as if they were nuts or peas. these then were tussaud's "petite fã©es," and pretty ones too. of course we put a fabulous price on this part of our treasure; i think in our ignorance we mentioned ten thousand pounds as about their value; but when they were sold in london some months after, in a well-known auction room, they realised but little more than a tithe of this amount. next day being fine we carefully filled the hole up again, ramming the earth down with a heavy wooden ram, and finished up by replanting the currant bush, which i believe still lives, or its descendant, to mark the spot where we discovered jean (barbe rouge) tussaud's treasures. we presumed at the time that the skeleton we found was that of the mate, william treffry, mentioned in the document, who had quarrelled with red beard as to the property, and that the latter had stabbed him to the heart, afterwards throwing the corpse upon the treasure, thus burying his guilt and his goods at the same time. a translation of the books we found corroborated us in this surmise, and accounted for many other things regarding the property which at the time we could not understand. i may add that among the clothing, we found a number of odds and ends, relics of the eighteenth century, which i still treasure in my home, one room of which forms quite a respectable museum, as since my sojourn in jethou i have brought many curious things from holland, france, and spain, many of which have pleasant stories attached to them. we found miniature portraits of a spanish gentleman, and a handsome fresh-coloured young lady with an english name, for their names were painted round the margin; a pair of gloves apparently blood-stained, a case of writing materials, four jewelled rings, a tress of dark brown hair nearly four feet long, an english bible, two watches with enamelled cases (about the size of small turnips), and several other things which need not be mentioned here, but of which we discovered the history in the parchment books.[6] [illustration: decorative scroll] footnotes: 5: these books i have since had translated, and find them to be full of "red beard's" personal adventures; most of them of such an interesting nature, that coupled with our discovery of his treasure, and what i have since learned of him from various sources, i have no doubt the public would be interested in them. possibly at no very distant period i may publish a book embodying the principal adventures set forth in these manuscripts, as many of the events in the life of barbe rouge are of a startling character. 6: see appendix--"modern treasures." [illustration: decorative chapter heading] chapter xix. preparing to leave--a letter home--we lengthen and enlarge the "anglo-franc"--re-christen her, "happy return"--love at first sight--victualling and stowing cargo--pretty jeanette--the long voyage--incidents en route--vegetarians, and their diet--yarmouth reached--freshwater navigation--my native heath. after our discovery my sole thought seemed to be of home. in fact, i was now as ready to leave the island, as i was, eighteen months before to land upon it, and the last fortnight, although it could not have been pleasanter, seemed as if it would never end. i appeared to go about my work in a mechanical way, and only three things seemed to have much joy for me--my home, parents, and priscilla. how should i get home was the next question? i knew my father's vessels were all out to the herring harvest, which begins in august, and ends just before christmas, so that it was very unlikely he would send for me. beside this, i wanted to give them a surprise by popping in upon them when they least expected me. to this proceeding, however, there was one great drawback, for, like a true crusoe, i lacked money, having but a few shillings to call my own. true, i had the spanish doubloons; but then, again, they were not mine, and if they were they were foreign coins and out of date also, so that no one would have accepted them as current coin. "what is to be done?" i asked my companion. "done! why there are several ways that i can think of," said alec, after a pause; "but first and foremost, why not go home in the 'anglo-franc?'" "monday, you're joking." "not at all. we have been out on several rough nights in her, and surely, norfolk is not such a great way off, that we need fear such a voyage in early september. by your leave i will go with you and act as skipper and pilot, and then, having taken you safely home, will resume my post as king of jethou. what do you say?" "but the 'anglo-franc' is too small, my good sir." "perhaps so; but in a week we can lengthen her, and by adding a couple of strakes to her upper works she will carry a ton more than she does now, if it should be necessary." "agreed, alec. your hand! good thought!" the more i turned it over in my mind the better i liked the project. why not lengthen and strengthen her at once? without delay we would set about it; but to make sure that my father would not send a vessel for me, i would write him a line. as with my former letter, brevity marked my epistle. "_jethou_, "_august 21st, 18--._ "dear father, "all's well. i hope to arrive home about september 10th, and trust to find you all well. "your affectionate son, "harry nilford." then, launching the boat, i instructed alec to take the letter to herm, so that the first boat crossing would take it to the st. peter port post office. i stood and watched him as he neared the little pier at the landing place of herm, and before he had arrived within two hundred yards of the place, the whole population--men, women, and children--turned out to see him. i am not sure but that the _entire_ population was waiting to receive him, for i could only count twelve persons. i think they could not muster more than two or three more, all told, so that his reception was a grand one. having instructions from me not to land, he handed the letter up in a cleft stick, and pushing off a boat's length, had a chat with the natives. "they all spoke at once," said he, "and would not give me time enough to answer their questions, so they got very little information from me. there was one very nice girl there though, that i should like to know, and when i get back from england, i think i shall try and see her parents, for i shall be very lonely all by myself, when you are gone." poor fellow! he had fallen in love at first sight with a vengeance. but it is just like we poor men; we are no sooner in possession of enough means to live comfortably upon, than we are sure to want to share it with someone else, providing the someone else is a pretty and loveable woman. right away from the creation it has been the same. adam and eve set us young fellows an example that it seems will never die out--at least i hope not till we have all found eves to our liking. the next ten days we worked very hard, for we lengthened the "anglo-franc" nearly five feet amidships, and built her up nearly a foot above her old gunwale, so that by raising the deck or roof of the cuddy forward about fourteen inches, and lengthening it a couple of feet, we had quite a cosy little cabin. it was wonderful what a remarkable difference these alterations made in her appearance. true, she was only some six inches broader in the beam, but now that she was lengthened amidships she was over twenty feet long, and could stand larger and taller masts. these we soon gave her, so that she now appeared as a half-decked lugger, and, considering our materials and tools, quite a smart little craft. my occupation of jethou, according to the agreement, ceased on september 2nd, and as it was now the last day of august, we set about putting everything in order previous to leaving on the 3rd, should the weather prove fine. it would never do to leave the island without someone in charge; and as we neither of us knew anyone who would act while alec was away, we were again in a quandary. at last i hit on a bright idea, one that made my comrade's eyes sparkle with delight. "did you not say that the pretty damsel of herm had a father?" i asked. [illustration: lengthening the "anglo-franc."] "yes," said alec, "and a mother too. would you like them to come over and take charge? yes? oh! la! la!!" then the simple fellow gambolled about like a young schoolboy, and exclaimed, "never mind the boat, let me try and swim over." "swim, alec! don't be a ninny. do you want to throw your life away in such madness? go down to the boat directly, and do not act like an ass." away he sailed, and soon landed at the little pier, and was quickly surrounded by the inhabitants, who took him towards the cottages out of my sight. he was gone so long that i became impatient for his return. it almost seemed as if he had forsaken me; but at length i descried him putting off again, and soon he landed, wreathed in smiles, happiness beaming from his eyes. he had settled everything. father, mother, and daughter were to come over at sunrise on the 3rd, so as to help us off and take final instructions. the 1st and 2nd of september were occupied in taking in ballast, water, provisions, etc.; in overhauling all the ropes, sails, and gear, and in making a couple of beds of sacking stuffed with the softest hay we could get. then we had to bake and fish, so as to replenish our stock of food. fruit had to be gathered, two small kegs filled with water, and finally the treasure and all my little curiosities to be got aboard. all this took us till long after dark on the 2nd, so that when graviot, his wife, and daughter landed about five a.m. on the 3rd, we were both fast asleep, so much so indeed that they had difficulty in finding our whereabouts and awakening us. at last, by rattling at the windows we were aroused, and turned out to bid the old couple and their pretty daughter, marie, welcome to jethou. they were very quickly busy, marie especially, for with alec's help she soon had the breakfast spread and all ready, and anyone with half an eye could see how matters stood between them. all appeared quite settled. after breakfast we all walked round the island together, so that i might point out what i required done during the absence of alec. i introduced them to "flap," the gull, who seemed to be rather shy of them, as they were the first human beings who had been permitted to interview him since i captured him fifteen months before, except alec. the goat, "unicorna," and her companion, or rather son, "butt," for she had had a son a couple of months after her landing, were next placed under marie's protection, while my dear old friend, "eddy," was handed over to graviot pã¨re, with strict injunctions to use him well and not to overload the poor fellow. he seemed to know i was going to leave him, for he thrust his nose into my hand, and made a great fuss of me as i caressed him. at eleven a.m., all being in readiness, i strode down the well-known pathway towards our little pier for the last time, and it was not without deep regret and dim eyes that i bade farewell to the home in which the past eighteen months of my life had been passed in perfect peace, contentment, and happiness. i could not help a sigh as i thought that this was the last tide i should see rise around jethou. the last time i should see "the busy waters, multitudinous, lip the dry beach, and rippling every pool, embathe the limpets in their swirling cool, and plash upon the rocks, returning thus to their old haunts with pleasure tremulous." i loved every rock and tree, and felt loath to part from them, for they were all old friends to me. i almost forgot to mention that after altering and painting our noble craft, we re-christened her the "happy return," trusting that a good name might give us a good voyage, and i am glad to say such proved to be the case. we calculated the distance from jethou to great yarmouth to be about three hundred and fifty miles, but before our voyage was finished we found we had greatly under-estimated the actual course; but apart from the wish of getting to the journey's end, we had a most enjoyable time of it. we calculated the trip would take us about five days, if the weather were at all favourable, and in this we were not far out. perhaps a few details of the trip may be of interest to my readers, for a voyage across the channel is not often undertaken in such a small vessel. as i have stated, we left jethou about noon on the 3rd, and rounded the southern end of hilly herm, then we laid our course so as to pass between alderney and cape la hogue, but for fear of rocks gave the cape a rather wide berth, so that about three o'clock we had alderney a couple of miles off on our weather beam. i was laughing at alec about his yarn of the "dewdrop," when an idea occurred to me. "what do you say to a glass of ale at the tavern you put up at in braye for those eleven days, eh, alec?" "just the thing. i have not tasted a glass for months." "nor i," i replied. "swing her round," and putting the helm over, we made for braye harbour to get a glass of beer. the wind being south-west was somewhat against us, but in an hour we were lying safely in the little harbour, not far from the shore end of the great breakwater, which is nearly a mile in length. we had two glasses of ale each and no more, and having verified alec's yarn of the "dewdrop," which was substantially correct, once more embarked, and with a fair wind cut through the water at a smart race. rounding cape la hogue we were fortunate to get the tide in our favour, and by sunrise on the 4th could just make out the entrance to havre, from which we were some seven or eight miles distant, and passing fecamp, were abreast of dieppe at three p.m. so far we had done remarkably well, and i proposed to alec, that as i had a little money, we should go ashore and have a civilized dinner and a look round the town; but he took a different view of the matter, and advocated keeping on as long as the wind favoured us, and to this i readily assented, as the wind was now somewhat unsteady. "begum" seemed quite to enjoy the fun as well as ourselves, and made himself quite at home, though i have no doubt he would have thoroughly enjoyed a run ashore, and, as luck would have it, that night he had it. some twenty miles further along the coast, that is, beyond dieppe, we met with our first mishap. the sea hereabout was decidedly choppy, and the wind very puffy, and during one of these puffs we sprung the foremast, which could not have been very strong, as the wind was not at all high. consulting a chart of the french coast, which we had obtained at braye, we decided, as it seemed to be setting in for a dirty night, to round in to the mouth of the river somme and stay the night at st. valery, so that we could get a new mast stepped early next morning, before proceeding across channel. it was lucky we did so, for the wind backed to the westward, raising a lumpy sea, and down came the rain till past midnight, after which the wind lulled and went to south-west again. about two a.m. out came the moon, and quickly chased away the remaining black clouds, after which it was fine again. it did not matter what the weather during the night was, as we were safe in port st. valery, from seven p.m. of the 4th, till eleven a.m. on the 5th. early in the morning we found a carpenter, who soon rigged us up a new mast, and after a stroll through the busy town to replenish our little stock of eatables, we again pursued our voyage. from st. valery to boulogne is a distance of about forty-five miles, and ere we reached it darkness was closing in, so we took in a reef, as was our wont at night, and lowered the mizzen altogether. this gave us an opportunity of moving along slowly, while one of us slept. we took it in turns throughout the night to take charge of the "happy return," and thus by changing watch every two hours we got a fair amount of sleep. two hours at a stretch is all very well, but it is not comfortable to be awakened out of a sound sleep in a warm, snug cabin, to take one's turn at the helm; and i soon discovered that three turns of two hours each is not nearly equivalent to a straightaway snooze of six hours, by any means. one has just time to get comfortably off, and then, "ahoy, there! larboard watch, turn out!" and then out you come to set for two mortal hours in the wet stern sheets, gaping enough to dislocate your jaw, and longing for the pleasure of dragging your mate out at the expiration of the watch, while you turn into his warm bed with a chuckling "good-night, mate." gaping seems to be very infectious, for on jethou i have several times noticed that alec and i, as bed time approached, would sit and gape at each other in a most alarming manner, yet not apparently taking heed of each other's performances, but gradually catching the infection unawares. on this particular night i gaped so as to be in danger of hitching my upper teeth over the foremast head, in which case i must have swallowed the whole mast, or have signalled to alec for assistance. making the run across from cape griznez to dover is no place for gaping, let alone sleeping; for vessels are so continually passing to and fro that one requires all their wits about them to keep clear of the steamers. these monsters, with their red and green eyes, came looming up so noiselessly in the still night, without the least warning (save these same eyes) of approaching danger, that i almost shuddered as they passed just ahead or astern, to think what might happen if either one of us slept for only a few minutes on his post. just a crash, a scream, and all would be over, and the great steamer would most likely pass along on her voyage, and no one be the wiser that a couple of lives had been sacrificed to morpheus. when morning dawned the dear old chalk cliffs of dover were looking down upon our little cockle-shell, as she rose upon each glittering wave, and looking up at those gigantic white cliffs, we seemed really to be at home. here was england at last, and i could not resist the temptation of running into the harbour to once more put foot on my native land. we got in about seven, and had a stroll about the hilly old place, then went to a dining-room and had such a breakfast as my slim purse would afford. we then gave "begum" (who looked after the vessel while we were away) a run ashore for half an hour, while we trimmed up and made all snug. at about half-past nine on the 6th we left the harbour in brilliant sunshine, ramsgate and margate looking gay with their flags, yachts, bathing machines, white houses, and throngs of holiday makers. the water round the english coast looks hardly clean enough to bathe in after the limpid crystal we had been used to at jethou. it struck us as looking peculiarly chalky and turbid, but a few days reconciled us to what we shall in future have to put up with. we kept close in to the north foreland, to avoid the dreaded goodwin sands, as we did not wish to leave the bones of the "happy return," with her valuable cargo, upon them. from the foreland we took a straight course across the thames estuary, for what we thought was walton naze, but as we had no compass, and were quite out of sight of land, we made a slight error, and about dusk found ourselves close in with the shore. not knowing where we were, as a fog from the land had come bowling along over the calm sea, we entered a pretty little bay, and dropped anchor for the night. while we were preparing supper and wondering where we had got to, as there was not a house, church, or other landmark in sight, we felt a bump against our quarter, and immediately after a head appeared above our side, with a "good evening, mates; i thought as how you might want summat from the town, so i jest put off to ye, seeing ye were strangers like." "very good of you indeed, my man. make fast and come aboard." our visitor did not want much inviting, for he rolled in over the side, and squatted down on a locker, as if he had known us all his life. he was a little round-bodied, big-fisted, ruddy man, of about sixty; a thorough water-dog, who, when his tongue was loosened spun yarns and sang us songs till near midnight. he was about the merriest little man i ever met. he had served twenty years in the navy, and was an old wooden frigate man, full to the brim with anecdotes. i thought at the time that it would be worth while for some enterprising editor to send out an expedition to capture him and make him spin yarns to fill up an otherwise uninteresting column of some weekly paper. if i had the space at my command i would recapitulate some of his stories here, but i have not. if i had, my readers would have to take such frequent pinches of salt that they would have a most tantalizing drought upon them, one which would be most difficult to quench. we obtained information as to our whereabouts, and found that we were anchored in a little bay in the estuary of the colne, about a mile from the town of brightlingsea. on the 7th the sun rose in great splendour, reminding one of the verse: "the night is past, and morning, like a queen deck'd in her glittering jewels, stately treads, with her own beauty flushing fair the scene, the while o'er all her robe of light she spreads." at six a.m. we were again under weigh (after a good breakfast), and close in with the land, which we hugged right away to yarmouth, as it was our nearest course. speaking of breakfast reminds me of eating, and eating of diet, and diet of health; and this again of my diet on jethou. two years ago i used to laugh at vegetarians and call them "pap-eaters," "milk-and-water men," and other pretty names; but while i was in jethou i had cause to think there was not only _something_ in their theory but _much_. when the weather was too rough for me to fish, i have often lived for a week or ten days on vegetarian diet, for although i had tinned meat i got tired of it in warm weather, and only ate it occasionally when the days were cold. the pig i killed was more than three-parts thrown away, as i did not properly salt it; so my pork store did not last long. i used frequently to cut several slices of bread and stroll about the garden and eat my breakfast direct from the bushes, while sometimes i would cook a fish and eat, finishing up with three or four apples or tomatoes with biscuits. dinner would perhaps consist of a saucepan of potatoes with a fish of some kind, then a rice pudding, or something equally simple, and some cooked fruit eaten with it. i used invariably to stroll through the garden daily and pluck a little of whatever fruit was ripe. i had no meal which corresponded to a tea, but after work took supper, which usually consisted of a scrap of meat or fish, bread and jam, biscuits and fruit. oatmeal porridge, with fruit and fish, formed my breakfast throughout the winter. it must be remembered that i had a splendid assortment of fruit, and as i ate it freshly gathered i had the full benefit of its medicinal worth, for i had not a day's real sickness while on the island. excepting the ten days i was laid by with my fall i did not have a single day's real illness. i had raspberries, currants--black, red, and white--tomatoes, apples, pears, walnuts, mulberries, gooseberries, etc., beside wild blackberries; also several vegetables, such as onions, carrots, lettuces, cauliflowers, peas, beans, potatoes, beet, and others. when i landed on the island i weighed twelve stone six pounds. when i was weighed at dover, on my voyage home, i drew the beam at thirteen stone eight pounds; so i was not starved. i was as tough as whit-leather, and as strong as a horse, as we say in norfolk. with this experience, therefore, i must certainly affirm that a diet of farinaceous food, fruit, vegetables, and fish, will not only give a man good health, but a clear brain, a strong body to perform heavy work, and staying power whenever anything unusual has to be endured or undertaken. more than this, no man can wish for; and even if he is maintained from his youth up on mutton cutlets, or choice rump steaks, he cannot be _more_ than healthy, strong, and happy. englishmen having for centuries been a meat-eating nation, are naturally reluctant to give up a habit that is almost part and parcel of their nature; but probably if less meat were eaten and more fruit consumed, especially in the warm weather, doctors would be less numerous, and the hospitals be crying out less frequently for increased funds to provide a greater number of beds. but where are we? oh, yes, of course, they were dovercourt lighthouses we have just passed, which seemed to me like two more mile-stones on my voyage home. the "happy return" behaved handsomely, and our cabin was quite dry all the voyage, thanks, perhaps to an extra washboard strake we ran round the bows before starting. we hoped on the 7th, by evening, to reach yarmouth, but were doomed to disappointment, as upon night closing in, we were only off kessingland, a mile or two south of lowestoft. as we did not want to enter the bure before daylight, i decided to run into lowestoft harbour for the night, which we did, and had a good night's rest. if i had not been so eager to get home i should have passed under the bridge into lake lothing, and so through oulton broad into the waveney on my way, but now i was as eager as a schoolboy, and could not bear the loss of even an hour. on the 8th we slipped out of harbour at dawn, which was about five o'clock, and by seven a.m. crossed yarmouth bar, at which my heart thumped so much that i looked round to see if alec noticed it; probably _if_ he heard it he took it for the bump of the paddles on the water, as a tug passed us towing a couple of fishing boats into the offing. at breakfast time, eight o'clock, we moored in the mouth of the bure, just alongside the quay by the ancient north gate, which has looked down upon the muddy old river for the past five centuries, its head held high in the air, as if wishing to avoid the assortment of smells which accompany the floating garbage sailing slowly towards the sea. how impatient i was for the tide to run up and bear me home to barton, about twenty miles from our present moorings, and at last it did turn. to give it time to gain strength we waited a full hour, then, spreading our joyous sails, away we sped. i might say we _tried_ to rival the express rate, but our actual progress was very parliamentary. we drew only three feet of water, but with a slack tide under us we touched ground several times between north gate and the one-mile-house, so had to be very careful. from thence onward we had deep water and progressed faster. it was nearly two o'clock as we lowered sail to pass acle bridge, and only about half our journey completed. stepping the masts, hoisting sail, and having a glass of good norfolk ale at the little inn alongside the bridge occupied half an hour, but now the river was deeper and the wind fresher, we went bowling along capitally, till taking the turn before reaching st. benet's abbey, where we lost the favour of the wind. the flat miles of marsh land looked strange to me after hilly, toilsome jethou. but now i was nearing home, and knew every tree and fence, every break in the river wall, and every house we passed, and loved them all; greeting them as familiar friends as we glided silently by them. st. benet's abbey passed we turn into the river ant, and again travel along with a fair wind till bothering old ludham bridge bars our progress; so we have again to "down masts" to pass under the single gothic arch, which has been the _ultima thule_ to many a large wherry. up sail once more, and on we glide up the tortuous narrow stream, till passing quiet, quaint, little irstead church, with its two or three attendant cottages, we at last enter barton broad.[7] now my excitement gives way to another feeling, that of suspense and fear as to how i shall find the old folks at home. are they well? who can tell what may have taken place during the past six months since my father wrote me, "_all's well._" i feel a sudden chill as i think of _her_ from whom i have been absent for over eighteen months, and reproach myself for not having communicated to her in some way or other. is _she_ well, and is she still _mine_? then my dear old mother, what of her? with these thoughts crowding through my brain i feel as if i could leap out of the boat and swim the remaining half mile, so slowly does she go through the shallow water. s-s-s-ssh, bump! and we come to a sudden stop, for my reverie has caused me to neglect my helm, and there we are, fast on a submerged muddy reed bed. all this inland navigation is new to alec, and he has been delighted to see how i have handled the craft so far, but i think this _contretemps_ rather shakes his faith in my knowledge, till i explain to him the cause of my neglect. a few hearty pushes astern and we are off again, and as the sun begins to cast its long red rays across the tranquil broad, with its reedy margin and water-lily nooks, the "happy return" glides alongside our little lawn. joy! i am home again! the wanderer has returned, and the erstwhile crusoe has once more, like rob roy macgregor, "his foot upon his native heath." [illustration: decorative scroll] footnote: 7: see appendix, page 277, "norfolk broads and rivers." [illustration: decorative chapter heading] chapter xx. i surprise the old folks at home--all well--is priscilla false--we meet--the missing letters--a snake in the grass--dreams of vengeance. as i stepped upon the lawn no one was in sight, so treading lightly i walked up to the house, and looked quietly in at the window, peeping cautiously so as not to be seen. to my intense relief the picture i saw within quite assured me that all was well. there sat my jolly old dad and my dear mother, cosily taking their tea, quite unsuspecting who would shortly join them in a cup. they looked very happy; so did a couple of dogs gambolling on the hearthrug, while our old cat sat on a rush hassock close by, looking dreamily at them through her half-closed eyes, when they threatened to knock her off her perch in their play. i quietly glided in at the side door, and gently opening the parlour door stood in the room before my parents. they both looked round as i made a slight sound; in a moment the quietude was broken. my mother half choked herself with the tea she was drinking, letting fall both cup and saucer on the dogs in her amazement, who scampered away, yelping at their sudden hot bath. "mercy me! my boy!" and she fell sobbing in my arms, or rather on my left arm, for my father had taken possession of my right hand with, "hang it all, harry, do you mean to kill us all with fright? why, my dear boy, i don't know what to say, i feel so glad to see you. however did you get home?" etc., etc. it was some minutes before their nerves were restored, and i had time to get a few words in edgeways between their greetings. they wanted me to answer a hundred questions, without even pausing to give me a chance to speak; but presently having satisfied them as to the chief points, i thought it high time to fetch in my companion, whom i introduced as "mr. 'monday' ducas, skipper of the 'happy return.'" they quickly made him welcome, taking him to be the captain of the vessel i had come over in, but remarked aside, that both he and i would look better for a wash and a shave, while possibly a few inches off our hair would make us a little more in accord with the usual mode of dressing hair in these parts. truly on peeping at ourselves in the glass we did look a couple of wild men or north american trappers. a tea was then prepared for us to which we did ample justice, but everything seemed so strange. we had not been used to chairs, carpets, window blinds, mutton chops, or even butter, but they soon came back to us as old friends, who had long been absent but not forgotten. we had a couple of bedrooms assigned to us, also a spare room, into which, on the morrow, i meant to convey our whole cargo; but at present i had neither mentioned our craft or its contents. these things i reserved as a surprise for my dad in the morning. after we had tidied ourselves i ventured to ask about priscilla, upon which my father beckoned me to another room, which greatly upset me. surely nothing was wrong with her; was she ill? my father noticed my agitation as i asked, "father, is anything amiss with her? don't tell me she is ill!" "no, no, my boy, calm yourself, she is well enough, but----" "oh, go on, father, pray do! i can bear whatever you have to say about her except that she has been untrue to me. if she has, i will find the man who has stolen her affection, and----" "peace! peace, my son! and listen to me quietly. i believe she is as true a girl as ever lived; but why did you not answer her letters? twice she wrote to you, but not a line did she receive in reply." "letters! i know nothing of any letters from her; all i have received was the solitary letter from you. but tell me what has happened? why do you look so grave? tell me, father, and end my suspense." "well, as near as i can tell you, harry, it is this. when you landed on the island it was to be for twelve months only, but at the end of that time i wrote to you stating that young johnson would wager one hundred pounds that you would be so sick of your exile, that you would not stay another six months on the island upon any consideration. i wrote you, and you accepted the wager, and i find that during the past six months he has been paying his addresses to priscilla, who----" "what!" i broke in wildly, "trying to alienate the affections of my betrothed, while he dangled a paltry one hundred pounds before my eyes so as to keep the coast clear, while he laid siege to _my_ love. let me catch sight of the villain, and he shall rue the day he trespassed on my rights. but what does priscilla say to his protestations of love; surely she does not give him countenance?" "my boy, you are too hasty," said my father, patting me soothingly on the shoulder; "listen patiently and hear all i have to say, then you can draw your own conclusions. "priscilla i know has not given him encouragement, but has returned several presents that he has sent her; but what mortifies her so, is that you have not even deigned to send her a line through all her time of temptation, although she has written twice to you. johnson's uncle has a large estate in florida, and being an old man, wants him to go out and help him to manage it. johnson has consented to go west, and only this week made an offer of marriage to priscilla asking her to accompany him to florida as his wife." "yes, father, go on." "well, i have not much more to say," he resumed; "i know not priscilla's answer, but this i do know, that if your love for her has changed, she might do worse than accept your rival; but i trust such is not the case." i could scarcely speak for rage and vexation, to think i had been so befooled by this fellow, and to have given priscilla cause to think my love for her could possibly change. i would go to her at once. but my father bade me sit down and collect myself, and calmly talk the matter over with him. "leave this affair to me, my boy, and join your mother and friend." i did so, but with an awful feeling of doubt at my heart. in half an hour my father entered the room, and reassured me with a quiet smile and nod, which was of great comfort to me. another half hour went by, and then a rustling at the door made me tremble with anticipation and doubt, for something told me it was priscilla. the handle turned, and as i held out both my hands to greet her, for it was she, she bounded forward with a cry of joy, and fell fainting into my arms. here was a _dã©noument_. i gently laid her inanimate form on the couch, and was immediately hustled out of the room by the combined force of my mother and our old domestic, ellen, and not allowed to return for a time, which to my fevered mind seemed an age, but which the clock pronounced to be twenty minutes only. this time priscilla came coyly to my arms, and i then knew all was well between us, especially when she turned me round with, "dear old harry! come to the light, you great brown giant, and look me in the face. ah!" said she, as alec obligingly held up the lamp that she might get a full view of me, "i can read truth in those bonny brown eyes, but you are a cruel fellow, or why did you not answer my letters? you bad boy!" "sit down, priscilla," and i quietly took her hands in mine, and drew her down beside me on the couch. "now, miss fortune teller! what letters do you refer to?" "two that i sent you, one in june and the other only five weeks since, at the beginning of august." "believe me, priscilla, i have never received them, and did not know of your writing to me till my father informed me of it, but an hour since. where did you write them?" "here, harry, in this very room." "and who posted them, did you do so yourself?" "no, your father posted the first, and ellen the other." "no," interposed my father, "i recollect young johnson called in directly you left, and seeing the letter in my hand, said he was going up to the village, and would post it for me, so i gave it to him." just then ellen entered with glasses and decanters, and it suddenly struck me to interrogate her on the subject. "ellen, do you remember posting a letter to me, about a month ago, that miss grant gave you?" "yes, sir, very well; at least i went half way to the post, when mr. walter johnson overtook me on his bay horse, and stopped me to ask how miss grant was, and seeing the letter in my hand, he offered to drop it in the box for me as he rode by the post office. so as it was such a wet day i let him take it. did i do wrong?" "well, i don't quite know, but never mind, it saved you a drag in the wet, anyhow." the maid left the room, and then i gave it as my opinion that walter johnson _had never posted the letters_, and that to-morrow i would interview him on the subject. alec was like a fish out of water at all this "high-bobaree," as he called it; but we now quieted down and spent a very happy evening together, with one or two neighbours, who having heard of my return, called in to pay their compliments. that night i tossed and turned about feverishly, as my home-coming experience had been so strange, that i could do nothing but think and dream of it. walter johnson was ever before me, and the more i thought of him and his underhand behaviour, the more i seemed to hate him, till at last i felt in quite a frenzy against him. i vowed to myself that in the morning i would see him, and if i could force him to confess his dastardly behaviour in not posting the letters to me, and in making love covertly to my affianced bride, i would thrash him soundly. my only fear was that i should do him some permanent bodily injury if he sneered at me, or in any way tried to ignore my right to put certain questions to him. towards morning my plans of vengeance were arrested by slumber, of which i was greatly in need. [illustration: decorative chapter heading] chapter xxi. the "happy return" inspected--more of my father's ghost--unpacking the treasure--seek an interview with walter johnson--two letters. at eight i arose refreshed and looked out of the window, and saw alec and my father walking down to the "happy return," so i slipped on my clothes and ran down to them. father was amazed to think we had made the voyage in such a craft, and said, "all's well that ends well, my lad; but if you had been caught in a squall in the channel, with a deeply laden boat like this, what do you think would have become of her crew?" then i explained how we had hugged first the french coast and then the english, going into port when we wanted; and how we had been favoured with fair winds and fine weather, which just pleased the old fellow. if anyone wanted an attentive listener let him broach the subject of ships and the sea, and he would at once have my dad as a most appreciative hearer. shipwrecks and disasters at sea on the east coast are, unfortunately, of only too frequent occurrence, and a large volume might be written of the daring deeds that have been performed in connection with them, which have come under my own observation. by the way, i promised my readers to say more of the vision of my father, which appeared to me in jethou. now that i was home i had the opportunity of telling him of this extraordinary occurrence. he was naturally surprised at what i told him, and could only account for it in one way. but let me briefly tell the reader what really occurred to him. he had been to yarmouth as usual to business, and in the evening was driving home when, in rounding a sharp turn, his trap was carelessly run into by another vehicle driven by a lad. my father was thrown out, falling upon the shaft of his own trap on his left side. as he was lying in an insensible condition in the roadway, the horse, in trying to rise, fell upon or kicked him in the thigh, breaking his leg. he was conveyed home, and a doctor sent for, who, in a short time, brought him to his senses. upon examination it was found that his thigh-bone and a rib on his left side were broken. while preparations were being made to set these bones my father conversed eagerly about the nature of his hurts, asking the doctor if they were likely to prove fatal, etc. the doctor told him "no, not necessarily, but he must keep his mind quiet and not worry." then he told the doctor about me, as it was for my sake he cared most, and it was at this time, viz., half-past eight p.m., that i saw the vision of my father sitting in my room at jethou. the mysterious appearance was in some way connected with his _will_, but how it was all brought about i must leave to the psychical society to fathom.[8] about ten in the morning miss grant came, and then i proposed that with father's assistance we should get out the whole of the cargo and store it in the spare room. i would not hear of his offer of a couple of men to help, as i wanted nobody but ourselves to know of what our cargo consisted. slowly the various cases, bales, and packages were transported across the greensward and safely housed, the heavy iron chest bringing up the rear. this took the united strength of four of us to carry, and when we had put it in the room, i locked the door and proceeded to show my spoil. first i exhibited the curiosities which we had dredged up, a few stuffed fish and birds, my sketches, curious stones, shells, and seaweed, etc. these were duly admired. then i brought out the old weapons, and undid the bundles of garments, but being rather musty the effect upon my onlookers was not great; in fact, my mother gave it as her opinion that they (the costumes) might breed a fever or some foreign disease, and should be buried or burnt. to this i could not consent however till i had had a little more time to look them over and make drawings of them; not that i ever intended setting up as a theatrical costumier, but i have a great love for anything old, which my friends tell me will ultimately become chronic, so that i shall have to be watched when visiting museums and kindred places, for fear of the development of kleptomania. expectation ran high as i produced the key of the padlock to unchain the big chest, for we had purchased an old lock at alderney, from mine host of the inn. the lid was raised, and i produced the three books, but as no one could read them they were put down as evil-smelling things, musty and mysterious. next the small golden casket was produced and handed round, amid great exclamations of delight, for i had polished it till it glittered again in the sunlight. the polished gems on the lid and sides found great favour in the sight of mother and priscilla, who were quite lost in wonder as to where i had obtained it. presently i opened it, and poured the uncut gems out upon the table, as a sample of jethou pebbles; but they were not much appreciated, although when held to the light they certainly shewed rich colouring. "only fancy walking about on a beach covered with these coloured stones. i should think they look rather pretty when they are wet with sea water and the sun shines on them. but then i suppose when you see them by the _ton_, day after day, you take no notice of them?" this was priscilla's idea, and when i told her that they were not so common as to be walked upon or shovelled up by the _ton_, but that they were really and truly diamonds, rubies, sapphires, and emeralds, in their natural uncut state, she would scarcely believe it. even my mother expressed her incredulity with the remark, "go along, boy! i suppose we shall not know a turnip from an apple next?" as my veracity appeared to be at stake i now produced a little pouch of cut, lustrous gems, which at once brought forth quite a different flight of exclamations and queries. "the ducks! how lovely! how they glitter! see how the sun makes them look as if they were alight! are they _really_ real? where _did_ you get them from? are they yours?" and a dozen other questions were put to me in as many seconds, but i only laughed and said: "now do you believe me?" the gold dishes, chalices, etc., were also produced, and made a great impression--gold always does. my good old dad stood by, looking very grave, and gave a very emphatic shake of his head, so i said: "what do you think of it all?" another shake of the head, and then: "i don't know what to make of it at all, harry; but if these things are yours, i hope you came by them honestly. such things are not indigenous to jethou, you know!" "not indigenous to jethou! why, alec will bear me out that they have been indigenous to the island for scores of years, won't you, alec?" "it is quite true, mr. nilford. these things have belonged to jethou for a century at least, but i cannot affirm that they are actually the native produce of the island, any more than the contents of these bags." he thereupon pulled out one of the great leathern bags and placed in my father's hand, who nearly dropped it, as it weighed over a stone. when the old gentleman saw the huge silver coins, each more than double the size of a five-shilling piece, he seemed spell-bound. "what are they? are _all_ the bags full?" he queried. "yes, dad; and now if you will all sit down i will tell you the history of my curious cargo." then i told them from beginning to end the entire history of barbe rouge's hoard, just as it is already known to the reader. i wound up my wonderful recital by calling for pen, ink, and paper, and there and then writing off to m. oudin, in paris, giving him a full account of the find, and asking what should be done with the property. by priscilla's desire i did not visit the priory that day, but on the morrow, after lunch, i took my heavy stick and strode up the gravel path and gave a very important rat-a-tat-tat at the great oak door. the servant who answered my summons informed me, much to my disappointment, that both mr. johnson and his son had gone to liverpool the previous day, the former to see the latter off. something of importance, the servant thought, had caused him to depart two days before the date upon which it was at first intended he should leave barton. with a glance at my big stick i thought perhaps i had somehow influenced his _hegira_, and such i afterwards found to be the case. as i was bidding the servant (who did not know me) "good morning" she asked my name, and upon my mentioning that i was mr. nilford's son, asked me to wait while she fetched a letter which had been left in case i should call. mr. johnson had also left a letter for miss grant. this i said i should have much pleasure in delivering, and took them both. arrived home i found priscilla waiting for me in great anxiety, fearing that if walter johnson was at home something serious between us might occur. probably something would have occurred. she seemed greatly upset, and taking me aside, said she had something to impart to me, which i must promise to forgive her for. i consented. "then, harry, i must confess to having written to walter johnson yesterday. no, do not look in that terrible manner, for i did it both for your good and his. i simply informed him that you were home and would call upon him to-day, so that if he wished to avoid a violent scene he had better hasten his departure." i could say nothing to this, as i felt that what she had done had saved a deal of bother. then i handed her the letter inscribed with her name. to my surprise she would not open it herself, and no amount of persuasion would cause her to. she wished me to open it and read its contents, that i might see all was fair and straightforward. it merely asked forgiveness for the writer for having behaved in such an ungentlemanly manner, and hoping that as all was fair in love and war, she would think of him as one who, having striven for a great prize, had failed. although defeated, he hoped she would remember him as one not disgraced, etc., etc. my letter contained a cheque for a hundred pounds, as payment for a wager lost to me, and wishing me every happiness. i ardently wished i could have been near the writer at that instant, and i fancy he would not only have felt most _unhappy_, but that he would have spent a _mauvais quart d'heure_, as our gallic neighbours say. so much for johnson, who never troubled us again. [illustration: decorative scroll] footnote: 8: i find, on enquiry, that this society has some _hundreds_ of well-authenticated accounts of these occult occurrences, and it really seems that we are often sceptical of these phenomena, without taking the trouble to investigate the cases that come under our immediate notice to discover their truthfulness. [illustration: decorative chapter heading] chapter xxii. m. oudin arrives--the wedding day--division of the spoil--alec returns to jethou--wedding gifts--the end. delays being dangerous, it was quickly decided that our wedding should take place on october 15th, my father's birthday. among the invitations sent out was one to m. oudin, of paris, asking him to come and spend a fortnight with us, so that he could kill two birds with one stone, viz., be present at the wedding, and take with him the treasure we had found on his island. on michaelmas day we received an acceptance of the invitation, and on old michaelmas day, which is a time of some note in norfolk, our visitor arrived. m. oudin was greatly pleased with our fresh-water broads, and as he was fond of angling and shooting he was very interested and happy. we showed him the treasure, of which he made notes in his pocket book, but further he appeared to take little notice of the matter. from his arrival until the wedding day was a period of excitement, and everyone about the place seemed to regard it as a festival; and truly such it was, for every day fun of some kind was afoot, especially in the evening, for then king misrule held his sway. m. oudin spent most of his daylight on the broad or the adjoining river with alec, in a small sailing skiff. these two, with rods, gun, and dog ("begum"), used to bring in quite a good supply of fish and water-fowl, which they captured in the quiet spots a little from the house. at length the wedding day arrived, and a bright happy day it proved, and everything went "as happy as the wedding bells," and _they_ rang merry peals till quite midnight. our whole village only contains about three hundred and fifty persons, so everyone who wished came to a meal spread upon long tables on the lawn, and from noon till midnight, dancing, singing, boating, etc., were in full swing. at ten p.m. a huge bonfire was lighted, which had not died out when our people arose the next day. before going to the church, m. oudin requested an audience of priscilla, father, mother, alec, and myself, and a red-letter day it turned out to be for us. briefly, m. oudin's harangue was this: "my dear friend harry, but for your discovery of the articles here before us (the treasure), both by good luck and your great ingenuity, i should not now find myself the possessor of what must certainly be of considerable value. now, if you have any special wish as to which of the articles you would like to possess, make your choice now, freely and without stint." i stepped forward and selected some of the old arms, including the silver pistols, the three books, and four bags of doubloons. then, turning the jewels out of the casket, i asked that this beautiful piece of workmanship might be mine also. "is that all, harry?" said m. oudin. "all, and more, sir, than i have really any claim to." "good lad; i admire your moderation. now, friend alec, and what would you like to take away with you?" "well, sir, as the digging was mighty hard work, perhaps you would not mind my taking a bag of the money, for i think it would be of more service to me than anything else, as i can, by changing it, soon make it into such small dimensions as to fold comfortably within the tuck of my pocket book for future use." "very well, my lad, your request shall be granted. and you, my dear girl," turning to priscilla, "what would you like as a memento of my visit, and as a remembrance of your bridegroom's sojourn on my island?" priscilla eyed the lace lovingly, and also the gems, but was puzzled in her mind to know how much of one or the other she might select without fear of encroaching on m. oudin's generosity. m. oudin quickly came to the rescue with, "now, my dear, you and mrs. nilford divide the lace into three equal heaps, and i will tell you what we will decide upon." after a time the three heaps were arranged upon the floor, and m. oudin informed us that he should ask my father to place his foot upon one of the heaps as he (m. oudin) stood just outside the door. my dad did so, and m. oudin cried, "for madam nilford." again my father touched a heap with his foot. this time he cried, "for my own dear self." then bursting into the room he, with extravagant bows and apologies to priscilla for leaving her out, wound up by gathering up the remaining heap of lace, and placing it at her feet. then, taking her by the hand, he led her to the table with: "now, my dear child, let me pay a penalty for my omission in not calling out your name. with this sweet little hand, which is in another hour to be claimed by our friend here, grasp as many of these rough-skinned little gems as your hand will hold, and they shall be yours." she grasped, but could only clutch fourteen or fifteen in her hand. "ah!" exclaimed our volatile guest, "you see you are not of a grasping nature. come, harry, try _your_ luck at a grasp." i took a big grab and succeeded in retaining about forty, so that we had between us much more than half the precious stones. but this was not all, for he continued: "now, harry, i will relieve you of the _whole_ of the doubloons, but at the same time i will ask you to put this in your pocket, as a settlement of what you might easily have taken for yourself, had you been anyone but the honest lad you are." here he handed me a cheque for a thousand pounds, which i sincerely thanked him for. then turning to alec he said: "young man, i believe it is your wish to live upon jethou, and such being the case i shall allow you to retain possession so long as you choose to live there, and in addition to this, in lieu of the bag of doubloons you selected, and which i shall retain, i purpose giving you a sum of fifty pounds per annum, so long as you remain on jethou." we all thanked him again and again for his generosity; but he would hear nothing of thanks, as he said the goods belonged to me as much as to him, and in giving away the greater portion he was only acting in a just spirit, in which he declared generosity had no part. "beside," said he, "i shall leave your hospitable roof with a good slice of the treasure trove, which, although found on my island, was (all but the lace) left by will 'to the lucky discoverer of barbe rouge's hoard.' all round, i trust we may say we are satisfied. and now to the church." in the afternoon i and my bride left for hastings. next day m. oudin, with his heavy packing case of doubloons, bade farewell to my parents to return to paris, where he had a very large leather business, and was accounted a wealthy man, as his brother had left him his whole fortune. alec, in a few days, set out on his return to jethou, compassing the distance as far as dover in the "happy return," which i had presented to him, but could get no further in her, as a gale from the south-west set in, and further attempt at crossing would have been suicidal. he therefore waited a few days for a stone steamer to take both him and his boat to st. sampson's harbour, guernsey, from which he crossed to his island home. i may add that as a wedding gift my father presented me with two new fishing smacks, complete with trawl net, herring nets, and other gear. on my part, to priscilla i handed over walter johnson's cheque for a hundred pounds, which was duly honoured by his father. i think i have now spun my yarn to a finish, and if my readers have been interested in my narrative, i shall, with the sense of conveying pleasure to others, never regret the happy hours i myself spent while enjoying a crusoe's life in the channel islands. _l'envoi._ at st. peter's church, guernsey, on new year's day, alexander ducas, of jethou, to jeanette graviot, of herm. [illustration: decorative scroll] [illustration: decorative chapter heading] appendix. a few words about the channel isles. to say that the channel islands are not known to the general public would be to say what is in these modern days of advertising untrue; but it may be doubted if they are so well known as they really deserve. they might very well be called the "multum in parvo islands," for they contain a very great deal of beauty in a small space; in fact, it would be very difficult, if not quite impossible, to find another place of the same collective area with such a diversity of natural beauty. hills, dales, bays, promontories, rocks, trees, lawns, dells, watercourses, and other natural features are here seen in every conceivable variety, and their beauties never pall upon one. the extent of the islands is roughly as follows:- ____________________________________________________________________ | name. | length | breadth. | area. | population. | | | miles. | miles. | acres | | |-----------|---------|------------------|-----------|--------------| | jersey | 12â½ | 5 to 7 | 40,000 | 65,000 | | guernsey | 9â½ | 4â½ | 15,500 | 35,000 | | sark | 3 | 1â½ at widest | 950 | 600 | | alderney | 2 | â½ on average | 600 | 2,000 | | herm | 1â½ | â½ | 300 | 2,000 | | jethou | 1/3 | â¼ | 50 | 1 family | |___________|_________|__________________|___________|______________| total area, 57,400 acres, or about 90 square miles. total population, 102,620. everybody appears to agree as to the salubrity of the climate, which is remarkably equable throughout the year. cool in summer, compared to the continental towns on the same degree of latitude, and much warmer in the winter. as a winter residence it is milder and less changeable than even our favoured devonshire. quite a list of plants might here be appended to shew the degree of mildness experienced in the channel islands. many of them, although of tropical growth, standing out of doors all the winter without taking harm. dr. greenhow, of edinburgh, while staying in jersey one winter, remarks in a letter to a friend dated january 21st, "i have now on a table before me in full bloom, the following flowers--narcissus, jonquils, stocks, wallflowers, rosemary, myrtle, polyanthus, mignonette, and hyacinths." to these the worthy doctor might have added several more, as the rose, violet, primrose, etc. snow is very rare, and usually the night frost is dispelled in a few hours by the warmth of the sun, and the general balminess of the air. for health it is difficult to conceive a spot where a more pure air can be discovered, for beside the fact of each island having the benefit of a sea breeze from whichever quarter the wind may blow, there are no manufactories on the islands to poison the atmosphere with fumes deleterious to health, as in many of our large english towns--even those called country towns. on the score of climate and air, therefore, the channel isles will bear comparison with any english county; not only a _favourable_ comparison, but one that cannot be rivalled by them, even in the south. in the matter of hours of sunshine the islands come out a long way ahead of even devon and cornwall, as statistics show that for every hundred hours these counties can boast of bright sunshine, the channel islands can show nearly one hundred and forty. the cost of living on the islands is, taken altogether, less than in england; but in the matter of house rent, is somewhat higher. meat of all kinds is a trifle dearer per pound than in england; but when it is taken into consideration that the channel islands' pound is about seventeen and three-quarter ounces of our avoirdupois weight, there is little, if any difference in the prices. fruit and fish are remarkably good and cheap. the produce in the markets of guernsey and jersey are an unusual sight to visitors, for the fruit is placed for customers' inspection just as it is gathered, so that the plums, grapes, etc., retain their bloom and look a perfect picture. the fish is brought in straight from the sea, still retaining its iridescent hues, and there is no need to enquire further if they are fresh, as they, to put it metaphorically, speak for themselves. coal has to be imported from england and belgium, and is therefore somewhat expensive; but it must be remembered that the climate, being so mild, does not necessitate so much being consumed. wines and spirits are now, since the imposition of a duty only a trifle lower in price than in england, but perhaps of inferior quality. tobacco and cigars are ridiculously cheap, but not always nasty, because of their cheapness. anyone content to smoke a cigar of fair quality may do so at a price about fifty per cent. less than in england; but if he is fastidious in his taste, and requires something superior, such as a genuine havanna, he will look for it in vain. strangely enough he can be obliged at most cigar dealers with havanna cigars at havanna prices, but as the customs pass very few of the genuine cigars, it is a mystery where they all come from. yet they say smuggling is a thing of the past! or do the gentle tradesmen, to discourage smuggling, manufacture their own _havannas_? good tobacco, shag and bird's-eye, may be had at eighteen pence per pound. there are several routes to the islands, the chief being in connection with our large railways, and are undoubtedly the quickest and most comfortable. those fond of the sea may make the trip from london by steamer any saturday throughout the summer, a distance of nearly three hundred miles for about a sovereign for the return journey. another route, for cornish people, is from falmouth. from plymouth west of england residents can take passage by a comfortable steamer any friday, which covers the distance to jersey in about ten hours. the route from southampton is a favourite one, as although not the shortest sea route, it is within such a small railway journey of london as to be reached in about a couple of hours. the distance by water by this route (one hundred and fifteen miles) does not apparently compare favourably with the eighty miles from weymouth to guernsey; but it must be remembered that the trip down the southampton water and along the shore of the isle of wight, till the needles are passed, is all smooth sailing. the actual distance on the open sea is therefore not very much further than by the weymouth route. the steamers which, by the by, carry the mails to the channel isles, are very large and powerfully-built vessels, fitted with every modern appliance for the comfort of travellers. the london and south-western railway may also be congratulated on having just the right men for captains of their vessels. men who, beside being capable navigators, are also alive to the comfort of those who are temporarily in their charge. still, another route is by the great western railway from weymouth. i would add a final word to those who are about to hie _abroad_ for a genial climate, for beautiful scenery, or to see something not to be seen elsewhere. have they thought of the channel islands? if not, let them try a month there, and if they are not pleased, there is the french coast only twenty miles away. should they not have gained all they expected in a visit, they will at least have acquired one thing, and that is a month's health. modern treasure. although the spoil we discovered on jethou was worth a very considerable amount, yet it appears quite insignificant beside some modern treasure which has been either sought after or found, as the following items, clipt from the london newspapers for july, 1891, will shew:-"a dalziel's telegram from berlin reports that a large treasure of gold coins, of the size of twenty-mark pieces, has been found at beuthen, in silesia. part of them bear the date 1508. there are reported to be a million coins in all." "his majesty king james ii. of england certainly gave a good deal of trouble during his lifetime, and is now proving a nuisance indirectly in a very extraordinary way, one hundred and ninety years after his death. according to an ancient local legend, james, who died at saint germain-en-laye, hid away somewhere in the neighbourhood of the monastery of triel, the royal crown of england, the sceptre, and other baubles of a total value of some â£2,000,000. for more than forty years past the owners of the estate on which are the ruins of the monastery, have sought for the regalia by digging long trenches in all directions, always starting from the building itself. this having become a serious danger to the neighbouring village, the mayor is taking steps to prevent any further delving by the seekers after hidden treasure." jarrold and sons, printers, norwich, yarmouth, and london. 