III
He crossed to the northward window.
The Downs surged before him like a wave, dull against the brilliant darkness. Overhead the slow stars trailed by, dipping, one after one, behind the dark curtain of hills. The moon climbed above the sycamores. Out on the plain something sparkled frostily. It was the bayonet of a sentinel, lonely-pacing in the moonlight.
The sight brought the lad back to earth.
How would it all end? Were these few bearskinn'd trespassers only the spray of seas to follow?
In a little while would England be flooded with them? Aghast, he peered seaward: and seemed to behold a black tide of men sweeping across the moon-drift. They deluged England. The fringe of them lapped about his own northern home. A man in a tree was shooting at Gwen running for her life, her hair behind her, screaming, "Kit!"
Something fell on the floor with a sharp tap, and stopped the shriek on the verge of his lips.
What was it?
Another tap. Something was bobbing briskly across the floor. He picked it up. It was a pebble, and must have come through the window.
Cocking his pistol, he rose.
"Down't shoot," said a low voice.