The man's face that peered into hers was handsome in a heavy undeveloped way. Eyes as grey as hers and as sombre scowled from underneath dark brows and a dark thatch of hair. His sullen mouth, set in a hard angry line, was the finest feature of a clean-shaven face.
"You little fool!" he half whispered, "what on earth, or in hell, has made you come meddling here, I'd like to know! I've nearly killed you!"
With his coarse pocket handkerchief he mopped up the blood that was flowing from a cut on her head.
"How did you nearly kill me?" she asked, "what harm have I done?"
"You've come sneaking in here, and in this darkness, and I hit you when you banged open the door. It seems you were falling over the doorstep. You're pretty pale, my girl, but I believe I know your face. Aren't you from Les Casquets?"
"I'm Ellenor Cartier, yes. And you—you're Monsieur Le Mierre, from Orvillière."
He scowled and looked for a minute as if he meditated another blow—then he swore roundly in the Norman-French that he and all the islanders spoke.
"How the devil did you know me in this darkness! You're a witch, it seems, and it isn't the first time I've thought it. You are not a beauty, my girl. But come, tell me, how did you recognize me?"
"I've seen you to church, to St. Pierre du Bois, but you were all dressed up then; and I've seen you driving to the market of a Saturday morning sometimes."