One there was who watched Christian with curious intentness, who, when the plight of the Alien staled on general interest, was singular by persistent advances: his old rival, Philip. Elder by two years, the tyrant of Christian's early day had he been; between them drawn battle raged while the one had yet advantage by a head, soon to alter when the other came stepping up from the ranks of boyhood to match with men, and to win final supremacy at every point. Latent challenge had not worn out of meeting glances even before Rhoda's coming accentuated an antagonism based primarily on temperament and type. When the world turned upon Christian, Philip's forwardness was accountable enough; when the world veered, his position might fairly have been backward.
And truly slowest he was to get conviction of the perfect cure that had befallen the alien. Though for proof he drew near, venturous to tempt a sparkle out of the quenched firebrand,his closest approach could discover none; nay, all lively mislike and jealousy seemed gone with the missing core; old remembered heats kept but indifferent life, and every trace of arrogance had vanished quite. To such an one Philip could be generous at no great cost were it not for Rhoda's preference.
In a character of but poor stuff some strands of good quality ran hid, and a love-liking for the shy, fierce, young girl was strengthening into better worth under reverses. That Christian stood first in her regard he knew well, for she made it abundantly clear, with a courage and frankness that brought comment. 'Not maidenly!' retorted Philip to his mother, 'then is maidendom the sorrier.' He came to respect even the innocent vice in her that woke ever to affront him. That his passion could survive rages of vanity, often and deep wounded, proved its vitality and worth.
Slowly also and fitfully Philip came to think that Christian was no rival lover; that he never did, that now he never would, regard Rhoda as more than a sister. For his own gain he might be generous; yet among meaner motives stood an honest endeavour to deserve well of the girl who loved Christian, overbearing old antipathies; nor should it beto his demerit that he was unconstrained by any touch of compunction: an amended version of Christian, harmless, luckless, well-disposed, forbade any such disrespect to past measures.
While many wondered that he should be so considerate of the alien, Rhoda hardened her heart. Even greater than unquenchable resentment was her distress of grief and shame because Christian was tamed. Unwittingly, Philip himself afforded demonstration. No wonder his aim miscarried, and he had ground to complain bitterly of signal injustice.
Once, at twilight, as Rhoda turned towards the quay, looking for Christian and his rent nets, Philip stayed her, refusing rebuff, and sought to turn her home again with an awkward lie. She caught him out and stared. Then sudden terror started her past him, and winged her along the shore towards men clustering thick. But Philip was speedy, overtook her, and in desperation held her by main force.
'Rhoda,' he entreated, 'you must not go. It is not Christian, I say. It is not Christian.'
She was struggling with all her might, beating at him, biting at his hands.
'I will go, I will! Christian, Christian! Let me go! Ah, coward!'
'It is not Christian,' and he named another to pacify her. 'Not Christian.'
She did not believe him; as he had caught her she had heard a cry that maddened her so that her brain could take hold of no reason. She was sure that Christian was being done to death after some horrible fashion.
No; thank God, no. She saw him suddenly safe and free; and she fell to sobbing and trembling pitifully, so that Philip without offence for a moment held her in his arms. She saw him coming, one high, fair head conspicuous above the rest; she saw him looking aside, turning aside, when instinctively she knew that what he beheld was a thief bound and beaten according to the custom and law of the fishers. As he halted, overlooking the circle, she read by nods exchange of question and answer. And then on he came again. One or two turned and looked after him: that she noted.
She was moaning and rocking for pain, though she did not know it; she was white and cold, for fear so held her heart's blood that not even the agony of shame she felt for Christian could urge any to her face. She tried to go forward, but only got free from Philip to find she could barely stand, and must hold by the sea-wall. So Christian's facecame near to be read, and lo! it was utterly blank: no anger, no pain, no shame, altered it by a line; but the lips were grey, and as he set eyes on Philip quickly he crossed himself. Then he saw Rhoda, and oh! the comfort to her of his strong, quiet grasp, and his eyes, and his voice.
Throbbing yet from Rhoda's warm weight, struck with vivid misdoubt and fear of the alien, Philip forgot control, and the natural man looked out for one moment with glance of hot challenge at his born rival. He met no response: Christian regarded him with resolute mild eyes, without jealousy, or resentment, or any perplexity, till he grew confounded and a little ashamed.
'Take me home,' entreated Rhoda; and Christian, without a question or a comment, took her hand to lead. For one dreadful moment, breathless to Rhoda, he looked back and stood. Against his palm hers lay listening: it was mute, to her nerved apprehension telling nothing. Then home.
What could the loon mean with his signing? thought Philip, shaken by a doubt. Nothing, nothing—blank madness. Nevertheless, his sudden, shameful fear of the Alien did not soon lie down to sleep again.
A further proving awaited Christian and Philip. To Giles came Rhoda.
'He says—Philip,' she began, choking, 'that except he—he—shall excel in the contests to-day, Christian will be wanted for saving to our fleet its lead on the coast. Oh, he must not!—he shall not! And he said, with his hateful airs, that he would do his best—to spare Christian. And he said, if he failed at that, he could yet promise that none should offend Christian with impunity while he stood by—he—he.' There a wretched laugh sobbed and strangled her.
'I said our Christian would not—no—not for love, nor fear, nor profit, for he hinted that. I said: with what face dare such asking approach? what part has he with the fleet? Never goes he aboard any boat, and never a soul comes aboard his, neither do any dredge alongside him and his ill-luck. The Alien they call him ever. Him—him their best, their very best, having used worse than the lowest outcast, they desire as their champion at need. Are devils so vile and shameless? Oh! he must not. Forbid it you, and he will not disobey.'
The old man shook his head.
'He is no child—even now. He will lookat me with those eyes of his, and ask why—and then am I done.'
Later, Rhoda ventured down to Christian, mending his dredge on the quay, and persuaded him away. In vain; for some waylaid him, and there in her hearing got his promise, in swimming and rowing to do his best for the credit of the fleet. Rhoda dared only press his hand and look entreaty while his answer hung. A dazed look came and passed. Afterwards, his face of mild inquiry daunted remonstrance, as Giles foretold.
Philip fetched him away eventually, but had not even the favour of a look from Rhoda. She kept down her head, biting back tears and words of rage and grief.
'I think he means well—does Philip,' sighed Giles unhappily.
Lois said bitterly: 'Like Samson blind, he goes to make sport for the Philistines.'
Rhoda broke into passionate weeping.
'Ah, ah!' she cried, 'it is unbearable. At every turn strangers I saw—who have come and heard—who will see, and our Christian will hear—alone, all alone. Oh, would that I were a brother to stand by him! Philip mean well! He prides himself on it, he parades it as a virtue, and to himself pretends that he doesnot hate. But once, he forgot, and looked—and I saw—hate—hate and fear. And I know, though he do contrary, that his blood will dance for joy at any affront to Christian. I know—and he takes Christian out to show!'
Giles got on his feet.
'If I am ever to tread the old quay, it may well be to-day.'
The remonstrance of Lois lacked vigour. He took help of Rhoda's shoulder the length of the downward street, and then shambled off alone to Christian's protection.
One, two, three hours passed, and twilight. Then back they came, Christian's ample strength charged with the old man's weight. Giles swore within his beard in his way that the women knew.
'He takes his way for no asking or need of mine,' he declared gruffly; 'and he might use his strength to better purpose.'
'Christian outdone!'
'No,' Christian said, 'I think not. No, none say so.'
He stretched wearily, sighed, and, laying his head down on his arms, slept profoundly. They exchanged woful looks.
'Poor lad, poor lad!' said the old man brokenly.
'Ah, yes; he bested the lot: in rowing hardly,in swimming easily. Oh, don't ask! it was pretty bad. Bad! Oh, good Lord, but it makes one man sweat again to look back on it.
'Oh! God damn their greedy eyes! Yet some few of our lot turned fair ashamed of their own handiwork; and when one brute of the Islands said—no matter what, but his own fellows muttered shame—and Philip would have struck him, yonder poor fool knocked up his arm quick.
'Yes, Philip, girl! and I tell you I saw no hate: and he looked long and close too.'
Stirless in sleep, Christian offered remonstrance to nerves that quivered under the halting tale.
'The worst? no, the worst was after the young fools in their cups got heady. And in the end—well, the end of all was that Philip floored his man. And that should have been Christian's business, and he would not stir, though I nudged him to be up and at such foul jests. "I have heard nothing unfit," he says. And I wished I were underground. I never want to foot the quay again. Poor lad! ay, and poor spirit! the very man of him has got flawed.'
'No,' said Lois painfully, 'however it came he did worthily, up to his name.'
Giles closed his mouth, but shook his head mournfully, and Rhoda drew to him.
This fell when late gales were closing the season to the coral fishers. Little more than a week after, Christian came back with his broken arm.
Then want came looming straight ahead. Every due was paid, but none knew by what hard stinting, for resolute pride uttered no plea, and hid every sign. That the waning life of Giles should suffer from no lack, the others fared the harder. A haggard Christian, befitting a chastened lot, drew no comment; and if Rhoda grew a little pale, and Lois shrunk and grey, known cares they had for allowance, barring any guess at scant bread.
The hardest of trials to a willing, strong man met Christian when, re-knit and sound, he offered for work and found that no man would hire him. His strange ill-luck cut him off from fellowship, so strong was the suspicion that a malignant influence had marked him down jealously. The only one to withstand the general verdict, to link him in, to persuade some favour to his hands, was the unrewarded Philip, whose best endeavour but won for him few, and brief, and ill-paid spells of labour. A many there were who would not take hisservices at a gift, and he knew it. Refuse, stranded out of touch of the human tide, he hung idle on the quay, through shortening days from morn to night, resolutely patient of the leaden hours and of the degradation on his famous strength.
Lois foresaw that bitter need might drive him away at last, but as yet she could not bid him go, for Giles was slowly dying.
Philip sought out Christian secretly, to hint that on a venture three gold pieces might be his. Christian understood him well enough. In the veiled language of the coast, a venture signified honourable service for brave men, though the law of the land held otherwise, and rewarded it as felony. A well-knit League carried on far and near a contraband trade in the lives of proscribed men, and even the scrupulous honesty of Christian brought no reluctance to engage.
'When, and with whom?' he asked.
'To-morrow, you and I,' said Philip, and watched him anxiously.
'Then are you of the League?' said Christian indifferently, nettling the other, still in the young pride of a desired association. The Alien at his best, he knew, would never have been reckoned fit; for though he excelled in strength, he lacked head.
'You and I together,' he said, 'are fairlyequal to any other three, and so can our gains be the larger.'
Yet Christian would not readily close on the rich relief. He fixed on the other a thoughtful eye, pondering a question of fairness that might not be imparted. Philip flushed a little.
'I am answerable to the League,' he said nervously; 'and though from outsiders we exact oaths, I will take it upon me to accept as sufficient your bare word for good faith and secrecy.'
This was no more than Christian's credit had established; for from boyhood, under the strict schooling of Lois, he had kept to his word as sacredly as others to their oaths, and from pride and a scruple had ever refused to be sworn.
Long seemed the pause and the trying scrutiny before Christian sighed and said, 'So be it.'
'And secrecy?'
'I promise secrecy.'
'And you will not refuse a strict promise to obey orders—mine?'
A vague foreboding warned Christian to stay, but reason could not sufficiently uphold it against his dire need of the gold. He promised.
'I take it,' said Philip carelessly, 'that your boat would be the easier to handle. Mine is over heavy for two.'
'I cannot risk what is not wholly mine.'
'The League makes good all loss. And remember,' he looked away, and his voice had a strange note, 'if we do not come back—for long—or ever—the League sees to it that our folk do not want.'
Christian looked at him hard.
'Agreed,' he said first; and then, 'You think that likely?'
'A venture is a venture; and, well, I may say that two ventures have miscarried, so many and brisk are the chasers; and I know of some who have fought shy of this one. I volunteered,' he said with pride.
So they went their ways, Philip bidding his conscience lie still and mute, Christian questioning his.
Save Giles, never had any man put out in that boat with the Alien. As the two slid out under early night, Philip looked at him, wondering if his wits were sound enough to tell him this, himself misliking the instance overmuch now. The sea was black and sullen, and the wind chill; Christian, silent and indifferent, was no heartening mate; and the shadow ofnight brought out a lurid streak in the venture that viewed under daylight had been but dull and faint.
The stealthy boat crept on till midnight; now and then from the cusp of a bay floated out the faint cry of a quail. Then thrice it sounded, when the boat swooped in, touched, and with a third aboard, sprang away swift as a fishing gull.
About to the west, then, Christian steered as Philip gave word; still west and west. He did not scan the stranger with natural interest, nor had he yet asked one question on their goings, though they were stretching for a coast known to him by fatal influence. When the very roar of evil waters sounded, and through it the first expostulation of a buoy bell, Philip's scrutiny could still detect no reluctance.
Oh! fain now would he see a touch of human infirmity for fellowship; night had entered his blood, and shocks of horrid fear coursed; too stark and dreadfully mute was the figure at the helm for him to be void of apprehension. And the terrors of the sinister place, that his venture was to set at nought, according to a daylight mind, came beating in against unstable defences, entered, and took possession.
Christian stooped over the gunwale, peeringinto the dark water. At that, Philip's hand went searching hurriedly about the bow, and that he sought was missing. He braced himself and approached the Alien.
'Christian, has she never a twig of rowan at her bows?'
The face that turned he could not see to read. 'No,' was the curt answer, and shaken through, he drew off with doubled thumbs.
Too late now he doubted Christian to be no tool for handling with impunity. And worse he dreaded, out of a dark teeming with possibilities, dreadful to human flesh and human spirit. His hair rose, and he flung prayers to the hierarchy of heaven, but chiefly to those three—St. Mary, St. Margaret, and St. Faith. Comfort it was to draw to the side of one who abode, as he himself, within the limits of the five human senses. The quiet voice of the Adventurer rallied him.
'What goes wrong?'
'We bear no rowan, nor leaf, nor berry.'
'Rowan! for protection against evil spirits?'
'Ah! name them not. Not here and now. Rather turn your thumbs against them, and watch him.'
'Him! your chosen mate?'
'God forgive me, and help us—yes. Sir, Itell you, laughter here is more than folly—it is wickedness. No, I will not be questioned how and why. There—look there!'
He grasped the sceptic's arm and pointed; Christian again had suddenly leaned down to peer over the boat's side.
'What does he see?'
Philip's teeth chattered. 'God knows, I dare not think.'
He crowded sail recklessly, and the boat leapt along, quivering like a thing in fear. At speed they fled on further west, till the Sinister buoys were all passed by, and the Land's End drew up and turned behind them. Then Philip, with a heart lighter by some degrees, hove to, close furled, to wait and watch through the chill, long hours, till nearing dawn turned them back to the safe desolation of the evil place.
Daylight better than dark speech declared the three to each other. The Adventurer considered well the men charged with his life and fortunes. Of a splendid make they were, both above the common in stature and strength, and well favoured in singular contrast. A practised student of his kind could read lines of weakness, and some feminine virtues also, in the dark, oval face with luminous, fine eyes, and amouth too fully perfect for a man, and could read on the face from the resolute north a square threat of obstinacy showing from the bones out, and daring and truth in the grey eyes, deep set, and from brow to chin every imprint of integrity. Both faces were set and haggard, and their eyes encountered with a sombre disaffection that augured but ill for success. Strife was latent.
Christian's glance rested on the Adventurer, unhooded to the morning light, and he guessed him, and knew him by silver mane and black brows an old lion-lord of a famous herd. The ray of recognition was caught and weighed. 'He has not been trusted, yet his looks are fit,' ran the old man's thoughts. He weighed Philip, whose features twitched, whose hands were nervous, who eyed his fellow with an uncertain glance, wavering at a return impassive as stone. Without hesitation he questioned for clearance.
'Is all well—so far?'
'Ay—so far?'
'At your discretion I would hear how our chances lie, and on what side peril. To a landsman we carry on in an aimless fashion.'
Philip looked at him straight enough, then furtively towards Christian. The stranger dropped his voice.
'Is danger yonder?'
Philip did not answer him, and strengthened in misdoubt, he spoke with a note of authority.
'I would know your plans.'
'You shall,' said Philip, but still he looked at Christian, and found it hard to begin. He took heart of wine.
'Hearken—you also, Christian.
'Sir, my undertaking is to put you aboard a foreigner, due to pass with her consorts off the Land's End, may be this day, or to-morrow at latest, whose part is but to contrive so that darkness may cover this bit of contraband trade.
'Your flight discovered will for sure have brought an embargo on all the coast. Not a sail will be out, but chasers on the watch. Ashore now, not a chance were possible; but we took wing betimes; and here may we bide under daylight, and at night make again for the Land's End to watch our chance.'
'Go on. This contrivance is too incredibly bald to suffice. How, then, when presently a patrol sails round yonder head?'
'May Heaven forfend!'
'Heaven! are you mad? Is all our security to be the grant by Heaven of a miracle?'
'First, sir, I will tell you that we are likeenough to be unharried; for it cannot be in mortal reckoning that we should dare here, since this place is a death-trap to be given wide berth in winter gales.'
'The very place to seek men fugitive and desperate.'
'By your leave, sir, I came into this venture as a volunteer, and not from desperation.
'The special danger of these coasts you do not know. Our winter storms, sudden and fierce, strike here at their hardest. Learned men say that high ranges leagues off over sea make a funnel to set them here. We fishers have another way of thinking—no matter what. But 'tis wide known that there is no record of any boat caught in a winter burst within sound of these breakers living to boast of it.'
'Is, then, the favour of Heaven also to be engaged to preserve from storm as from chase?'
Philip, tongue and throat, was dry, and he drank again deeply.
'You tell me of risks that I cannot bring myself to believe a volunteer would engage; not though, as I hear, he doubled his price.'
Wine and resentment mounted a flush.
'You do ill, sir, to fleer at a man who for your service risks freedom, life—ay, more thanlife—but that you would not believe; for you laughed, under night even, you laughed!'
'By heavens! every look of a death-trap comes out on your own showing; and except you show me the key to unlock it, I myself will hazard the forcing; I and your mate yonder, who well I see is not in your confidence, whose face tells that he has no liking for you and your doings.'
Christian turned away and made no response.
'For God's sake, sir,' whispered Philip then, 'have patience, or you ruin all!'
'Let be that wine and speak out.'
'Drink you, Christian.'
He refused. Philip fetched breath for a plunge.
'Bear me out, Christian, when I say that one there is who can do what none other living can—and will.'
Christian waited with a face of stone.
'Who can carry us safe through the reefs. Christian—this—you promised—you must undertake this.
'Look you, we may never be driven to it; a far ship could not easily make us out against this broken background.
'Christian, not another soul knows or shallknow. Sir, you can tell him that the League had not even a guess. I stood out for that.
'You asked nothing. Had you but cared to ask, I would have told you earlier. You may have guessed; you cannot deny you are able. Sir, he is; and when I asked his services, he promised—without reserve he promised.
'Christian, you never have failed of your word; all your life that has been your pride, and so have I relied on it—a man's life relies on it.'
Christian kept an averted face, and stared down into the water.
'You can—I know you can!'
'I can.'
'And you will—to your promise I trusted.'
'I promised, and I will.'
Philip grasped his hand in cordial gratitude; Christian suffered it, but his face was sullen. The Adventurer saw sweat standing on the brow of each, so that he wondered at what were behind.
Philip turned with a brightened eye.
'Now, sir, you may see that our chances are not so desperate, since, from storm or chase, we can put to safe haven beyond the reefs, to wait or dodge; or at worst, to get ashore and taketo the hills—a put back, but to you a good exchange for four walls. Only I have a thing to ask of you, sir, come good or ill: that you will never breathe to a soul of this way of escape.'
The Adventurer eyed him with something of distrust still, while he fingered his beard thoughtfully and smiled, half sneering.
'I understand—you would preserve a monopoly, and continue a good trade. But it looks to me that you have done some cheating by your mate, that might make him decline partnership and seek his own market.'
'By heavens! you are over ready with your imputations!' said Philip, angry. 'The Alien there is welcome to make what profit he can for me. Never with my goodwill shall I be here again. For why I undertook it, I had my own good reasons, which concern you not at all. But I will tell you that I know not of another man who would dare partnership with the Alien—ay, ask him, and he will not deny it; or who would put body and soul in jeopardy in this place.'
The Adventurer turned to Christian, smiling, courting friendly intelligence.
'You, it appears, have put body and soul in jeopardy, and know the place; and body and soul are none the worse.'
Without any answer, Christian looked at him, and colour ebbed from his face. Philip touched for warning, and with lifted finger indicated the want, half guessed already by that fixed, blank gaze.
'Answer only at your pleasure, but for my soul's salvation I do desire to know what threats it here.'
For the moment Philip did not suspect derision. Discreetly he told of the fatal tradition, that the settled conviction of generations had brought men fatally to uphold and abet. So much of reason he had discovered for himself, and he desired that Christian should hear.
The work was taken out of his hands by a skilled master. The reverend superstition was subjected to all the disintegrating forces that human scepticism can range; and with cold reason, logic, and analogy, went such charm of courteous tolerance, and wit, and wise and simple exposition, as tempered the mordant touch of lurking ridicule. He was but for pastime, trying his practised touch upon two young fools. Half scared, half fascinated and admiring, Philip responded; Christian stayed sullen and silent.
At its nearest lay the Isle Sinister under noon. The Adventurer sighed for the land as, cold and uneasy, he couched for needful sleep. Philip lay stretched beside him, Christian, according to his own preference, taking the first watch. Out of new bravado, Philip passed on to Christian a muttered question: Could he now carry them in and land them on the very Isle?
Like a bolt came Christian's answer: 'Drowned and damned both shall you be before I will.'
Philip rose up, startled by the answer and the unexpected intimacy it acknowledged. But the voice had been of level quiet, and the Alien's face showed no anger. The Adventurer watched with a sardonic smile; and Philip, forcing a show of unconcern that he did not feel, muttered a word of madness and dropped back. For a while resurgent terrors thwarted sleep; but the quiet breathing of his neighbour,the quiet outlook of the Alien, told on his shaken nerves, and slumber overtook him. Christian stayed waking alone.
Ah! the relief. He stood up to take free, deep breath, and stretched his great limbs. Long, intently, with shaded eyes, he stared towards the Isle Sinister. Ah! nothing, and well nothing. Could she trust that he meditated no trespass? that he would allow none? Could she deem that he offered no insane resentment against her severity? A sea-gull flapped close past his head, but was mute.
He turned and looked down on the sleepers, and his face, illegible for many a day, showed bitter resentment and scorn. Shamefully had he been beguiled, trapped, bound by a promise; and wanton goading had not lacked, all but intolerable. Fools! their lives were in his hand; and he was awake. Awake, as for months he had not been; his pulses were leaping to full heart-beats, there was stir in his brain; and therewith, dislike and contempt exciting, the keen human passion of hate lay torpid no longer; it moved, it threatened to run riot.
Who dare claim loyal service from him? Philip! One boat had been familiar withthese reefs: somewhere in the past murder rested unavenged. Philip!
In the deep water that the boat shadowed a darkness slid, catching his eye. He peered, but it was gone. Before, and not once only, had an impression seized him, by deliberate sight not verified, that a sinister attendance lurked below. Now unconstrained he could watch.
Great dread possessed him. Storm and chase were light perils, not to be compared with her displeasure, her mere displeasure, irrespective of how she might exert it. With heavy grief had he borne late estrangement, and her severe chastisement of offence. Were his limbs but for his own service, lightly, so soon as they were able, had he risked them again to worship his love and seek grace. Alas! she could not know that loyal, and strong, and tender his devotion held; she would but see an insolent and base return, meriting final condemnation. Helpless rages of grief urged him to break from all bonds, and plunge headlong to engage her wrath or her mercy. He cast on the sleepers then a thought, with ugly mirth, mocking the control of his old enemy in his heart.
How would she take the forfeit! With herrocks and waves she had broken him once, and the surrender of all his bones to them in despair he had firmly contemplated; but human flesh and spirit shrank from horrors unknown, that she might summon for vengeance. Could he but see what lurked below.
Spite of the ripe mutiny in him he minded his watch, and swept the horizon momently with due attention. The day altered as the slow hours dragged: a thin film travelled up the clear sky; the sun took a faint double halo, while the sea darkened to a heavy purple. He knew the signs: small chance was there now of a stormless night. Not two hours of full daylight were left when below the sun rose a sail. His hopes and fears took little hold on it, for as yet it was but a speck; and he knew that before it could close darkness would be upon them, and belike storm also.
With a desperate remedy before his eyes a devil's word was in his ears: the League makes good all loss. Foul play? Nay, but had not the League by Philip played him foul first, with injury not to be made good. And those for whose sake he had owed regard for his wretched life would be bettered by his loss.
When Philip rose up from sleep a blacknessstood upon the distant sea, threatening the sun; the chill wind had dropped, but a heavy, sullen swell insisted of a far-off tyranny advancing. To him no sail showed, but Christian flung him word of it, and his sinking heart caught at high hope.
Then, since their vigil was soon to pass, Philip dared greatly; for he bade Christian sleep, set hand himself to sail and tiller, glided in past the buoys, and rocked at trespass.
'It is safer so, should the haze part,' he said, but his voice shook.
The Alien said never a word; each looked the other hard in the eyes, paling.
'The League makes good all loss,' said Philip, low. 'And if so be that only some forgery of a loss can cover a fair claim, you may count on my—what you will—as you please.'
Christian refused hearing. Flung down for unattainable sleep he lay stretched, covering his head to inspect by the light of darkness his wrongs, and Philip's treason, that left to him nothing but a choice of transgression.
The blackness stood higher and crept on. The sun was captured, shorn, disgraced, and sent bald on his way; a narrow streak of redbleeding upon the waters died slowly; all else was slate-black. Above the gloom of the cliffs the sky showed blanched, clear and pale. Ghostly white the sea-birds rose and fell. The tide was rising, deepening the note of the surf; between the warders white columns leapt up with great gasps.
It was Rhoda's name that Philip whispered over, to strengthen his heart at the perilous outlook. The make of his love had a certain pride in overbearing such weak scruples as a tough conscience permitted. Half he feared that the Alien's poor wits had yet not recognised the only path left open by a skilful provision; for there he lay motionless, with the slow breath of untroubled sleep. He would not fear him; with Rhoda's name, with hope on the unseen sail, he fortified his heart.
In the deep water unshadowed by the boat a darkness slid, catching his eye. He peered, but it was gone. His heart stood in his throat; a palsy of terror shook him. Oh speak, speak, St. Mary, St. Margaret, St. Faith, help a poor body—a poor soul!
When he could stir he headed about, and slunk away for the open, out of the accursed region. A draught of wine steadied himsomewhat, and softly overstepping Christian he roused the Adventurer, to get comfort of human speech. He told of the coming storm, he told of the coming sail, but of that other thing he said nothing. Yet presently the Adventurer asked why he shook. 'It is for cold,' and he drank again. And presently asked, what did he look for over the side? 'A shark's fin,' he said, 'that I thought I saw,' and he drank again.
At their feet Christian lay motionless, heeding nothing outside his darkness. Yet presently the Adventurer said further: 'He sleeps. From what disquiet should you eye him so?'
'If you list you shall know of his past,' muttered Philip. His speech was a little thick.
From the coming from the sea of the alien child he started, and rambled on, with fact and fiction very inextricably mingled; but the hearer could make out the main truth of the blasting of a proud young life, and pitied, and was minded now to make large allowance for any misdemeanour.
From their feet Christian rose, and without a look removed to the bows. They were stricken to silence.
Suddenly Philip clutched the other, staringdown. Both saw and blanched, though what they glimpsed gave to them no shape for a name. It was gone.
'What is it?'
'No rowan! not a leaf.'
At that the old man mastered his nerves and laughed scorn in his beard. Philip cast a scared look towards Christian.
'Last night,' he whispered, 'he looked over the side. I saw him—twice—it was for this.'
'What is it?'
'You saw. That was his familiar.'
'Now look you,' returned the other with grave sarcasm, 'that is a creature I have seen never, and would gladly. You, if you be skilled as a fisher, catch me that familiar, and I will pay you in gold; or in broad silver if you win me but a fair sight.'
Philip, ashy white, crossed himself. 'Heaven keep us! The one bait were a human soul.'
Not with all his art and wisdom could the Adventurer now reinstate the earlier hardihood of his companion. Against a supplement by wine he protested.
'Sir,' said Philip, sullen, 'I have braved enough for you and my conscience, and more.Longer here I will not bide; no, not for any price. We go to meet our fortune yonder of friend or foe.'
The Adventurer looked at him and smiled. 'You miscount. Should I and he yonder, the Alien, be of another mind, your course may be ordered otherwise.'
Taken in his own toils, Philip glared in wrath and fear, sundered from a common cause, an adversary.
From the shrouded sea grew a roar; Christian sprang up; the darkness swayed forward, broke, and flew shredded; a line of racing waves leapt upon them as with icy stroke the squall passed. Through the broken vapours a rim of sun showed on the horizon; and there full west beat a tall three-master; a second was standing nearer; of a third a sway of mist withheld certainty. Here rose hope wellnigh clear of doubt.
But the mists spread down again with twilight adding. The House Monitory woke and spoke far behind as they went to windward. Now Christian steered.
Again was he aware of a stealthy threat moving below, and again looking he could nothing define. He was seen of both: the Adventurer came boldly to his side, and Philipdare not bide aloof. They peered, and he would not.
For an intolerable moment he forbore them, gripping the tiller hard.
'There is it!' said the old man. 'What say you is the creature? Your mate has named it—your familiar,' and he laughed.
Even then Christian forbore still, though the stress of long hours of repressed passion culminated in a weight of frantic anger and loathing, cruel to bear.
Then Philip lied, denying his words, and Christian knew that he lied; his crafty wits disturbed by wine, reverse, and fear, he blundered, protesting overmuch.
Said the Adventurer grimly: 'Now my offer holds good for silver or gold; be you man enough to back your words, you who would give me the lie?'
Without tackle men take fish by flamelight, spearing; and thus fell the wording of Philip's menace, as, reeling between fear and resentment on either hand, he cried wildly:
'I care not—though, by heavens! a famous take may come of it. We have but to try fire.'
Christian gripped him, very death in his face and in his strength; swayed him from hisfeet; gripped the harder for his struggles, till the ribs of the poor wretch gave, and cracked within his arms; with a great heave had him shoulder high; with another could have flung him overboard. And did not.
On the finest verge of overpoise he held, swung round with a slackening hold, and dropped him like a cast bale to the bottom of the boat. Then he caught the tiller and clung to it with the strength of a drowning man.
Philip lay groaning, broken and wrung in body and mind. He realised a dreadful truth: for one brief second he had seen in Christian's eyes fierce, eager hatred; clear, reasonable, for informed by most comprehensive memory; mad he was, but out of no deficiency; mad, with never a blank of mind to disallow vengeance; as cunning and as strong he was as ever madness could make a man; unmasked, a human devil.
The Adventurer lifted him and felt his bones, himself half stunned and bleeding, for he had been flung heavily from unpractised balance, as suddenly the boat lurched and careened in the wallop of the sea.
The menace of an extreme peril closed their difference, compelling fellowship. Theycounselled and agreed together with a grasp and a nod and few words. Philip fumbled for his knife, unclasped, and showed it. 'Our lives or his. Have you?' 'Better,' returned the other, and had out a long dagger-knife sheathed, that he loosened to lie free for instant use. 'It has done service before. Can you stand? are you able?' It was darkening so that sight could inform them but little concerning the Alien.
Christian was regarding them not at all. From head to foot he was trembling, so that he had ado to stand upright and keep the boat straight. Not from restraint his lips were bitten and his breath laboured hard: quick revulsion had cast him down, so passion-spent, conscience-stricken, and ashamed, that scarcely had he virtue left for the face of a man.
Their advance strung him, for he saw the significant reserve of each right hand. That his misdeed justified any extreme he knew, not conscious in his sore compunction of any right to resist even for his life. He waited without protest, but neither offered to strike.
Reason bade for quick despatch—very little would have provoked it; but not Philip at his worst could conduct a brutal butchery, when conviction dawned that a human creature stoodat their mercy by his own mere resolute submission. With names of coward and devil he struck him first, but they did not stir him to affording warrant. The Adventurer took up the word.
'Brutal coward, or madman, which you be, answer for your deed; confess you are a traitor paid and approved.'
He shook his head.
'Why else have you now half murdered your fellow? Verily are you an alien through and through, for no man born on these shores would so basely betray a trust.'
'Nor I,' he got out, and rather wished they would strike with their hands.
'You lie!' said his accuser; 'or robbery, or murder, or treachery you intend—or all. Own your worst; try it; this time openly, fairly: your brute strength upon two who are not your match: on your mate damaged from your foul handling: on an old man, whose gold you have taken, the trust of whose life you have accepted.'
He could not attempt a protest, though his heart was like to break enforced to silence. The other advanced in temerity with an order.
'You have a knife. Give it up.'
He obeyed without a word. Then the twomade no reserve, but with a show of bare steel proved his temper. He did not lift a hand.
Lois might come to hear of his transgression: she would never know how hard it was to atone, because they dawdled so cruelly, because he knew they would bungle so cruelly: he did not think either had force to drive a blade home at a stroke.
The Adventurer paused. Here without madness was a guilty wretch cowed at detection, abject as a wolf in a pit!
'We would not your blood on our hands, yet to no oath of yours may our lives trust.'
'I would not offer it.'
'Only as the wild beast you showed yourself, look to be kept bound.'
Such putting to shame was simply just, but oh! hard.
'I may not withstand you,' he said, hardly, steadily, 'but ah, sir! ah, Philip, suffer me! If this night I am to go to my account, I do greatly require that, through my default, the lives of two men may not drop in the loaded scale.'
To them the plea rang strained and false.
'We choose our risk; against treachery of the skies will we rather provide.'
He surrendered his hands to the Adventurer.Philip took the helm, but the miserable culprit winced to hear how the strain brought from him a sob of distress. The old man did his best under direction for shortening sail; but while yet this was doing, again the ominous roar sounded and grew, and a squall caught them unready.
The light boat quivered in every plank as she reared against the heavy charge; sheets of water flew over, blinding. Christian heard from the helm a shriek of pain and despair, and at that, frantic, such an access of strength swelled in him, that suddenly his bonds parted like thread, and he caught the restive tiller out of Philip's incompetent hold. There could be no further question of him whom by a miracle Heaven had thus graced in strength for their service. And for their lives they needed to bale. Christian blessed the cruel, fierce elements.
Far ahead heaved lights, revealed on the blown seas: far, so far. Right in their teeth drove the promised gale, with intermittent bursts of sleet and hail. Upon bodies brine-wet the icy wind cut like a knife. Twin lights sprang, low down, giving the wanted signal; bore down, then stood away: the appointed ship followed after her consorts, not daring,with a gale behind, to near the cruelest coast known.
Struggling on under a mere stitch of canvas, the wind resenting even that, clutching it, threatening to tear out the mast, they went reeling and shuddering on to their desperate fortune. For hours the long endeavour lasted, with gain on the double lights by such slow degrees as mocked at final achievement.
Except that his hands were like to freeze out of use Christian cared marvellously little for outer miseries. To him all too short was the span of life left for retrieving one guilty minute; no future could he look for to live it down, so certain had he become that this night death was hard after him.
Two stars reeling, kind, bright stars, shone life for others though not for him. Perhaps for him, he wanted to believe; some coward drop in his blood tried to cheat reason and conscience. Why not for him? Could his doom be so heavy as to sink that great bulk with its scores of souls? And though now he should freely release others of his peril, who would ever count it to him for righteousness, to soften the reproach that would lie against his name so long as ever it were remembered?
The cold touched his brain. Surely he haddied before, long ago, out of all this pain and distress. Waves heaved gigantically; spray dashed hard in his face; he shrank humanly, knowing he was not fit to die; she was coming through the sea bringing life. No, ah! not now. She was lurking in the sea holding death.
'Madness and treason are not in him.'
'He is a devil,' said Philip, 'a very devil. See! Go you now, and feign to persuade for abandoning the boat, and shipping together.'
'That will I in all good faith,' and he went and came again.
'First he refused outright; then he said, when the moment came we should know as well as he.'
'I knew it, I knew it,' chattered Philip, 'oh, a devil he is! Sir, you will see me out of his hands. I know what he intends: on the instant you quit the boat he casts off and has me at his mercy, he and that thing below. I am no coward, and it ill becomes you to hint it; and I fear death no more than any sinner must, no clean, straight death.
'Sir, his putting out of life was long and bloody: I saw it; death by inches. And he looked at me with infernal hatred then; the very same I saw in his eyes but now. Why should he check at sudden murder, but for afouler revenge. You cannot judge as I. You have not seen him day after day. Treacherously he accepts friendship; he feigns to be witless; and all the while this hell-fire is hidden out of sight. You do not know how he has been denied opportunity, till rashly I offered it.
'O sir, quit of him this once, I am quit of him for ever! No, I mean no villainy against him, but—but—it happens—there is every inducement for him to choose that he and his boat never be seen of us again. Drown? no, he never was born to drown. The devil sees to his own.
'It is true—true. You saw the Thing yourself. Also, did he not refuse an oath? So has he all his life. Now know I: there are certain words he for his contract may not utter.'
When tall masts rocked above, and voices hailed, and a rope shot across, again the Adventurer pressed Christian hard with precious human kindness. Men big and fair-haired were shouting, knocking at his heart strangely. Most foolish and absurd came a longing just once before he died to be warm and dry again, just once. He shook his head.
Philip kept off, nor by word or sign offered the forgiveness he ached after, but hasted topass first. Then the other followed; he loosed the rope; it leapt away. The last face he saw gleaming above him was Philip's, with its enmity and a ghastly drawn smile of relief: never to be seen of him again.
How long would her vengeance delay? The vast anger of the sea leaped and roared round him, snatching, striking. An hour passed, and he was still afloat, though the mast was gone; and near another, and he was still afloat, but by clinging to an upward keel. In cruel extremity, then, he cried the name of Diadyomene, with a prayer for merciful despatch, and again her name, and again.
Diadyomene heard. The waves ran ridged with light that flickered and leaped like dim white flame. Phosphor fires edged the keel; a trailing rope was revealed as a luminous streak. He got it round his body, and his hands were eased.
Up from below surged a dark, snaky coil, streaming with pale flakes of fire; it looped him horribly; a second length and a third flung over him; a fourth overhung, feeling in air. A loathsome knot worked upon the planks, spread, and rooted there. He plucked an arm free, and his neck was circled instead. His knife he had not: barehanded he fought,frenzied by loathing of the foul monster, the foulest the sea breeds.
Before his eyes rose the sea's fairest, towered above him on the rush of a wave, sank to his level. Terrible was her face of anger, and cruel, for she smiled. She flung out a gesture of condemnation and scorn, that flashed flakes of light off shoulder and hair. She called him 'traitor,' and bade him die; and he, frantic, tore away the throttled coil at his throat, and got out, 'Forgive.'
Like challenge and defiance she hurled then her offer of mercy: 'Stretch, then, your hand to me—on my lips and my breast swear, give up your soul: then I forgive.'
She heard the death agony of a man cried then. Ceasing to struggle, his throat was enwound again; both arms were fast: he cried to his God to resume his soul, and to take it straight out of his body and out of hell.
Away she turned with teeth clenched and furious eyes; then, writhing, she returned, reached out, with one finger touched, and the foul creature shrank, relaxed, drew coil by coil away, dropped, and was gone. Diadyomene flashed away.
When the night and the trouble of the storm were past, not a ship afloat was scatheless.From one that crawled disabled, a boat was spied, drifting keel upward, with the body of a man hanging across it, whose bright hair shone in the early sun, making a swarter race wonder. Against all conjecture life proved to be in him yet. And what unimaginable death had been at him? What garland was this on his throat: blossoms of blood under the skin? When he was recovered to speech he would not say. Good christian men, what could they think? His boat was righted, and with scant charity he was hustled back into it; none of these, suddenly eager to be quit of him, wishing him God-speed.
Under cover of night he crawled up to his home, dreading in his guilt to face the dear, stern eyes of his mother. Ah! no, he entered to no questioning and little heed: the two women sat stricken with sorrow; not for him: in the room beyond Giles lay dead.
So Christian's three gold pieces buried Giles with such decent honour as Lois could desire.
Christian's misdoing was not to pass unregarded.
A woman turned upon Rhoda passing with a mutter so like a curse that the girl's surprise struck her to a pause. It was Philip's mother who faced her, glowering hate.
'What have you done with my boy?'
'I?' said Rhoda, with widening eyes, though she blushed.
'You—smooth-faced chit—yes, you! Oh, keep those fine eyes and that colour to take in men, for me they will not! I can see through you! I know you, and the games you are playing!'
'What then?' flashed Rhoda. 'You accuse me? Of what? and by what right?'
'Right! The right of a mother whose son you have driven away.'
'He is nothing to me—never will be—never—nothing!'
'I know it. I know it well, and I told him so: nothing! 'Tis only your vanity to have at your heels the properest lad and the bravest of the place.'
'He!' cried Rhoda, in disdain.
'Ay, I know how your fancy has run, against natural liking for the dark-haired and dark-eyed of your own race; your vagary goes after fair hair and grey eyes. Well, see for all your sly offers that great blond dolt gapes and gapes over your bait, never closing to it. That northern blood is half brine.'
Rhoda stood speechless; her anger, shame, and pain transcended blushes, and she changed to dead white.
'And you pick out one who can love like a man, who fires at a word or a look, and him you delight to stab and torment with your cruel tongue, while you use him for your ends. Shameless! You have dropped yourself into his arms even, so to heat the Alien from his fishes' blood. May I live to see you put to shame of some man!'
'He said—oh, vile—of me! Cur, cur!'
''Tis I that can read between the lines, not he, poor blind fool! Miscall him! ay, you have got the trick. You may bring up faults against him—some do; but I tell you no manwill do greatly amiss who still goes to his old mother and opens his heart to her.'
Rhoda's breath caught like a sob at that, for there unknowingly went a stroke at Christian. She gathered herself together for bitter onslaught, for outraged pride and indignation drove out compunction, drove out any mercy. Out it all shrivelled at a blasting thought that stopped her very heart. Mute she stood, white, shuddering, staring. Then she got out a whisper.
'When did he go—tell me? Since—my uncle died—or—before?'
'Well enough you know 'twas before——'
Rhoda turned and fled homeward, fleet as terror, though her knees went slack and her brain reeled. She drew bolts before her dreadful incoherent whispers welled out to Lois.
'Where he went she did not know, did not guess, never thought it was on a planned venture. None would think of that, or think that two alone would suffice, or dream of Christian—I had thought that strange—you too. And we know Christian went on a venture, by the three gold pieces we know: and that could not have been alone, and he is not of the League. And I thought it had been with Philip; and I thought Philip meant kindness—perhaps for my sake, which vexed me. Oh,perhaps it was for my sake, and I was vexed! Yet see, none others guess it nor do conceive that any, in any cause, would go hand in hand with our Christian. And none would greatly mark his goings and comings—Christian's—for unreason has so chartered his ways. Then, though both were away that same day, not even his mother had noted it. And oh! think of Christian in these days! Has sorrow only been heavy at his heart? And a hurt on his throat he would not show. And oh!' she said, 'and oh!' she said, and failed and tried again, 'oh! his knife—he has not his knife.'
The love and faith of Lois sprang up against belief.
'Child, child! what do you dare to say—to think? Would you hint that Christian—my boy Christian—has done murder?
'No, no, never! No, never, never! I would stake my life—my soul—that it was fair fight!'
Lois looked at her and said a cruel thing: 'You are no helpmeet for him. Thank God! you are not his wife!'
Rhoda quivered at that, and found it a saying hard to forgive. Her heart swelled to refute it, and might not for maidenhood. Long ago she would have had Christian rise up to avenge himself terribly; her pride had suffered from thepoor temper she saw in his. Now, though he had exceeded the measure of her vague desire, he stood fair and high in her estimation, illuminated, not blackened by the crime she imputed. Against all the world, against his mother, she was at one with him. Was there any other who desired and deserved the nearest and dearest claim, that she had renounced.
A wedge of silence drove between them. The character of the mother's stern virtue dawned upon Rhoda, appalling her: for the salvation of her son's soul she might bid him accept the full penalty of his crime—even that. A horror of such monstrous righteousness took the girl. She stole to unbolt the door and away to warn Christian, when a whisper stayed her.
'I failed him. I thought then only of my man, and I had no prayers for my boy. Ah, Christian, Christian!'
Doubt had entered. Lois knelt and prayed.
Rhoda wavered. Her estimate or the world's, the partial or the vindictive, shrank to their due proportions, as Lois thus set Christian's crime before the eye of Heaven. She wavered, turned, and fell kneeling, clinging and weeping, convicted of the vain presumption that would keep Christian from the hands of his God.
She was bidden away when Lois caught a sound of Christian.
His mother held him by the window for the first word.
'Christian, where is Philip?'
His startled eyes were a stab to her soul; the tide that crimsoned his very brow checked hers at her heart. He failed of answering, and guilt weighed down his head. She rallied on an inspiration that greatest crimes blanch, never redden, and 'You have not killed him?' was a question of little doubt.
'No, thank God! no!' he said, and she saw that he shook.
Then he tried to out with the whole worst truth, but he needed to labour for breath before he could say with a catch: 'I meant to—for one moment.'
To see a dear face stricken so! Do the damned fare worse? More dreadful than any reproach was her turning away with wrung hands. She returned to question.
'Then where is he?'
'I cannot tell. He left me. He would not—he was afraid.'
'What had you done? You had harmed him?'
'Yes,' he said, and told how.
'What had he done to anger you? Had he struck first?'
'No.'
'You had quarrelled?'
'No.'
'Had you no excuse?' she said.
He hesitated. Could she know and understand all, there might be some pity with her condemnation, there would be some tempering of her distress.
'I can make none,' he had to answer.
When next she spoke: 'Then it was old hate,' she said, and after a minute he answered 'Yes' to that.
So she had to realise that for months, according to her gospel, he had been a murderer at heart; and her assurance of a merciful blank of mind and memory tottered, threatening a downfall that would prove the dear son of her hope of a rotten build. She tested his memory.
'I asked a promise of you once, and you gave it.'
'Yes,' he said, and, do what he would, 'I have broken it' got mangled wretchedly in his throat.
'Your promise! Is it believable? You could—you!'
'O mother! If God forgot me!'
Her heart smote her because her prayers had deserted him then.
'Oh, peace!' she said, 'and do not add blasphemy, nor seek to juggle with God.'
She did not spare him, and deeply she searched his conscience. Self-convicted already he was, yet his guilt looked freshly hideous worded by her, as look wounds, known to the senses of night, discovered by the eye of day.
For a whole dreadful hour Rhoda listened to the murmur of voices. Then they ceased, and Lois came. 'Thank God, child!' was all she needed to say.
'Heaven forgive me! Can you? can he? Let me go to him—I must. Ah me!—can he forgive me?'
Lois held the door and turned her. 'He has nothing to forgive,' she said, and her face frightened questions.
From among some poor hoards Lois drew out a tiny cross of gold. It was Christian's, sole relic left of his young unknown life. As a little lad he had played with it and lost it, and Lois finding it had taken it into keeping. Now she took it to him.
'I will ask no renewal of a broken promise—no. I want no hard thing of you, only this:when temptation to deadly sin is overbearing, before you yield, unfasten this and fling it from you into the sea. You will? Christian, answer—say, "I will."'
'What worth has any word of mine?' he said in his despair; but her arms were round his neck fixing the knot, and stayed to clasp, but her rare terrible sobs rose as she cried, 'Oh, God help you, my son!' and 'I will, I will!' flew strong to assure her that that word would never have to be fulfilled.
Near was the time that would put him to the test, and he knew it. A day passed and a day passed, out of eternity into eternity, and the moon filled up to Diadyomene's account.
'Rhoda,' he said, 'do you know what day this is?'
'Christmas Eve.'
'Yes—but to my mother—her child was born——'
'Yes,' said Rhoda hurriedly, and bent her head: she for the first time knew her own birthday.
'Listen, Rhoda! She has aged and weakened so; the day and night of prayer and fasting she has now begun I fear may outdo her strength. Will you keep ever at hand to listen and be careful of her?'
'And you?' asked Rhoda.
'I may not stay. I cannot.'
She flashed a look of amazed indignation, for instinctively she knew that he would be leaving his mother to seek the strange-named woman, and such filial misconduct in him was hardly credible. No kind word or look would Rhoda grant him. He never felt the lack: his mother's blessing he did greatly desire, but he dared not intrude on the day of her mourning to ask it.
Short was the day and long the way, but over soon by some hours was he footing it. The singular incidence of the day encouraged belief that a special mercy of Heaven was ordering his goings for the comforting of a long sorrow. Ah! God grant her a soul from the sea, and ah! God grant it by me for a token. All his steps were taken to prayer, and the least thing he asked of his God was that, though his sins were so heavy, he might not die till he had seen that salvation. His head and his heart told him that if he failed in his high endeavour he must surely perish.
Over the wold came a harsh call, and again till he answered and stayed. He was making for waste stretches, gashed athwart by long gullies preventing any fair paths. Already,though but half a league forward, tracks had grown rough and uncertain. The voice came from a mudded hollow, where a loaded cart stuck fast, an old horse and an old man striving with it in vain. Though loath to be hindered, Christian turned aside to give help.
He was not graciously welcomed. The old man scowled, and swore under his breath. 'The Alien, deuce take it, he will not serve!'
But he stared, and words failed when Christian promptly laid hand on the load, saying, 'Here's bad balancing, Gaffer; we had best uncord first and set it right.'
'Ay, it shifted. Have it that way, if so you can and will. My two boys did the cording, and two fools they be.'
He sidled away, muttering wonderful oaths as curiously he watched the Alien's tackling. The load was a tree brought down by the recent gale; protruding roots clawed the mud behind; piled branches nodded to the fore, orange-red berries bright as coral dangling there. Christian's great strength made light of the work, and soon the cart went crawling out of the mire. He snapped off a twig to scrape the mud from his shins, and the gaffer's mutter then caught his ear.
'He's done it—sure! Be danged if Ireckoned he could. Well, well, some be liars!'
'In your best days, Gaffer, you might have done as much.'
The old face wrinkled with a sour grin.
''Twas said you couldn't abide the rowan.'
'Why?'
'Well, I never asked. May be they lie who swear that never a twig of the rowan goes in your boat. Some have taken to say so.'
'None, true enough. What then?' said Christian, and he noticed that the man had thrust a bunch of berries into his belt.