Part 46 (2/2)

”We are going for him. I thought you would like to come too,” her face went rosy with grat.i.tude, and the brave little hands clasped up on to her breast, as she murmured--

”Oh, M. le Senechal!” and choked at anything more.

Those nearest gave her rough words of encouragement.

”Cheer up, Nance! You'll soon have him back!”

”That's a brave garche! Don't cry about it now!”

”We'll make it up to him, la.s.s. We'll all come and dance at the wedding”--and so on.

But the Senechal patted her on the shoulder and asked--

”And where is your brother? He should come, too. I hear you have both been in this matter.”

”Ah, monsieur!” she said, with br.i.m.m.i.n.g eyes and a pathetic little lift and fall of the hand, which expressed far more than she could put into words. ”We fear ... we fear he is drowned. He swam out to the rock taking food, and ... and ... we have not seen him since;” and her hand was over her face and the tears streaming through.

”Mon Dieu! Another!” said the Senechal, aghast. ”When, child? When was this?”

”The night after the storm, monsieur.”

”Perhaps he is there, on the rock.”

”No, monsieur. I was over there myself last night. He never got there, and we fear he must be drowned.”

”You were over there, child? Why, how did you get across?”

”I swam, monsieur;” and he stared at her in amazement.

”Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu! You make up for some of the others,” he said bluntly. ”Come then, and we will make sure of this one, anyhow;” and he led the way to John de Carteret's boat, and all the people gave them a cheer as they pulled out of the harbour to catch the breeze off the Laches.

Then the crowd waited for their return, and talked by s.n.a.t.c.hes of all these strange happenings, and discussed and discounted the chances of Bernel's being still alive.

”For, see you, the Race! And that was the first night after the storm, and it would be running like the deuce, bidemme!” ”It's best not to know how to swim if it leads you to do things like that, oui-gia!” ”When a man's time comes, he cuts his cleft in the water, whether he can swim or not, crais b'en!” ”And that slip of a Nance had been over there last night--par made, some folks have the courage!” ”All the same, it was madness--”

But behind all the broken chatter, in every mind was the grim question, ”Who is it, then, that is doing these things amongst us?” And there was a feeling of mighty discomfort abroad.

All the same, they cheered vigorously as the boat came speeding back, and they saw Gard sitting between Nance and the Senechal, and crowded round as it ran up the s.h.i.+ngle, and would have lifted him out and carried him shoulder-high through the tunnel and up the road, if he would have had it.

They saw how his imprisonment on the rock--”Ma fe, think of it!--all through that storm, too!”--had told upon him. His cheeks were hollow, and his eyes sunken, and he looked very weary--”and, man doux, no wonder, after eighteen days on L'Etat!”--though their friendly shouts had put a touch of colour in his face and a spark in his eyes for the moment.

”Now, away home, all of you!” ordered the Senechal. ”We've all had enough to think about for one day. To-morrow we will see what is to be done.”

”Too much!” croaked one old crone, who had something of a reputation among her neighbours. ”What I want to know is--who killed Peter Mauger?”

And that was the question that occupied most minds in Sark that night.

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