The king's daughter o' Noroway,
'Tis we must fetch her hame."
Sir Patrick Spens.
"All quests end here, all voyagings, all ventures:
Is not my white breast haven to your sail?"
The Wave's Song.
CHAPTER XXXVIII
Flower of the Gorse
(1)
A brilliant May morning of sun and wind was exulting over the beautiful harbour of St. Peter Port at Guernsey, and over the old town rising steeply like an amphitheatre from its blue waters. But the aged salt who was making his way up one of the narrow streets with a basket of freshly caught lobsters on his arm was not particularly responsive to the sunshine; indeed, the air with which he paused and mopped his red face suggested that an injured "Very hot for the time of year!" would issue from his bearded mouth in response to any greeting.
As he put away his bandana and prepared to resume his ascent of the cobbles, he observed two persons coming down, one behind the other—a young man in uniform, and, in front of him, a girl in the old Guernsey costume of chintz-patterned, quilted gown, opening in front over the black stuff petticoat into the pocket-holes of which, after the island fashion, it was tucked. This damsel came tripping down, despite the steepness of the street, happy no doubt in the conviction that the officer behind her was admiring her trim feet and ankles in their blue stockings and buckled black velvet shoes. Unfortunately the officer could not see her pretty face, framed in a close mob cap under an ugly bonnet with enormous bows. Only the ascending fisherman, at the moment, had a sight of that, and yet his gaze was fixed precisely on the soldier behind her, scenting a possible purchaser in him rather than in the native maiden. And the officer, too, seemed to have his eye on the fisherman, and slackened his pace as he came nearer. So Beauty, casting half a glance on the writhing lobsters, passed unheeded.