rries 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 sinkin