There is, at Aurigny, another seat of this kind, called the Monk's
Chair, so well sculptured by the waves, and with steps of rock so
conveniently placed, that it might be said that the sea politely sets a
footstool for those who rest there.

In the open sea, at high water, the Gild-Holm-'Ur was no longer visible;
the water covered it entirely.

The Gild-Holm-'Ur was a neighbour of the Bu de la Rue. Gilliatt knew it
well, and often seated himself there. Was it his meditating place? No.
We have already said he did not meditate, but dream. The sea, however,
never entrapped him there.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] He who sleeps must die.

BOOK II

MESS LETHIERRY

I

A TROUBLED LIFE, BUT A QUIET CONSCIENCE

Mess Lethierry, a conspicuous man in St. Sampson, was a redoubtable
sailor. He had voyaged a great deal. He had been a cabin-boy, seaman,
topmast-man, second mate, mate, pilot, and captain. He was at this
period a ship-owner. There was not a man to compare with him for general
knowledge of the sea. He was brave in putting off to ships in distress.
In foul weather he would take his way along the beach, scanning the
horizon. "What have we yonder?" he would say; "some craft in trouble?"
Whether it were an interloping Weymouth fisherman, a cutter from
Aurigny, a bisquine from Courseulle, the yacht of some nobleman, an
English craft or a French one--poor or rich, mattered little. He jumped
into a boat, called together two or three strong fellows, or did without
them, as the case might be, pushed out to sea, rose and sank, and rose
again on rolling waves, plunged into the storm, and encountered the
danger face to face. Then afar off, amid the rain and lightning, and
drenched with water, he was sometimes seen upright in his boat like a
lion with a foaming mane. Often he would pass whole days in danger
amidst the waves, the hail, and the wind, making his way to the sides of
foundering vessels during the tempest, and rescuing men and merchandise.
At night, after feats like these, he would return home, and pass his
time in knitting stockings.

For fifty years he led this kind of life--from ten years of age to
sixty--so long did he feel himself still young. At sixty, he began to
discover that he could no longer lift with one hand the great anvil at
the forge of Varclin. This anvil weighed three hundredweight. At length
rheumatic pains compelled him to be a prisoner; he was forced to give up
his old struggle with t