Part 39 (2/2)

The poacher bolted his food, sombre eyes brooding or stealing across the room to the bed where his gun lay. Jacqueline, to my amazement, ate as daintily as a linnet, yet with a fresh, hearty unconsciousness that left nothing in her bowl or wooden spoon.

”Schist?” inquired the poacher, lifting his tired eyes to me. I nodded. So he brought a jug of cold, sweet cider, and we all drank long and deeply, each in turn slinging the jug over the crooked elbow.

The poacher rose, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and made straight for his new gun.

”You two,” he said, with a wave of his arm, ”you settle it among yourselves. Jacqueline, is it true that Le Bihan saw woodc.o.c.k dropping into the fen last night?”

”He says so.”

”He is not a liar--usually,” observed the poacher. He touched his beret to me, flung the fowling-piece over his shoulder, picked up a canvas bag in which I heard cartridges rattling, stepped into his sabots, and walked away. In a few moments the hysterical yelps of a dog, pleased at the prospect of a hunt, broke out from the net-shed.

Jacqueline placed the few dishes in a pan of hot water, wiped her fingers, daintily, and picked up Ange Pitou, who promptly acknowledged the courtesy by bursting into a crackling purring.

”Show me the swimming-suit,” she said, shyly.

I drew it out of the satchel and laid it across my knees.

”Oh, it has a little tail behind--like a fis.h.!.+” she cried, enchanted.

”I shall look like the silver grilse of Quimperle!”

”Do you think you can swim in those scales?” I asked.

”Swim? I--Jacqueline? Attendez un peu--you shall see!”

She laughed an excited, confident little laugh and hugged Ange Pitou, who closed his eyes in ecstasy sheathing and unsheathing his sharp claws.

”It is almost sunrise,” I said.

”It lacks many minutes to sunrise,” she replied. ”Ask Ange Pitou. At sunrise he leaves me; nothing can hold him; he does not bite or scratch, he just pushes and pulls until my arms are tired. Then he goes. It is always so.”

”Why does he do that?”

”Ask him. I have often asked, but he never tells me--do you, my friend? I think he's a moor-sprite--perhaps a devil. Do devils hate all kinds of water?”

”No, only holy water,” I replied.

”Well, then, he's something else. Look! Look! He is beginning! See him push to get free, see him drive his furry head into my hands. The sun is coming up out of the sea! It will soon be here.”

She opened her arms; the cat sprang to the doorstep and vanished.

Jacqueline looked at the swimming-suit, then at me. ”Will you go down to the beach, M'sieu Scarlett?”

But I had not traversed half the strip of rock and hard sand before something flew past--a slim, glittering shape which suddenly doubled up, straightened again, and fell headlong into the thundering surf.

The waves hurled her from crest to crest, clothing her limbs in froth; the singing foam rolled her over and over, stranding her on bubbling sands, until the swell found her again, lifted her, and tossed her seaward into the wide, white arms of the breakers.

Back to land she drifted and scrambled up on the beach, a slender, drenched figure, glistening and flas.h.i.+ng with every movement.

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