“The first of the fleet—a scout,” said another, “and Heaven has sent a storm to destroy them like it destroyed the accursed Armada in Queen Bess’s time.”
And still the ship came nearer.
“’Tis the Bonne Esperance,” said the low voice of the smuggler friend close to Elfrida’s ear, and she could only just hear him through the whistling of the gale. “’Tis true what old Betty said; the French will land here to-day—but they’ll land dead corpses. And all our little cargo—they’ve missed our boat in the gale—it’ll all be smashed to bits afore our eyes. It’s poor work being a honest merchant.”
The men in their queer uniforms, carrying their queer weapons, huddled closer together, and all eyes were fixed on the ship as it came on and on.
“Is it sure to be wrecked?” whispered Elfrida, catching at old Lord Arden’s hand.
“No hope, my child. Get you home to bed,” he said.
It did not make any difference that all this had happened a hundred years ago. There was the cold, furious sea lashing the rocks far down below the cliff. Elfrida could not bear to stay and see that ship smash on the rocks as her carved work-box had smashed when she dropped it on the kitchen bricks. She could not even bear to think of seeing it. Poetry was difficult, but to stay here and see a ship wrecked—a ship that had men aboard—was more difficult still.
“Oh, Mouldiwarp, do come to me;
I cannot bear it, do you see,”
was not, perhaps, fine poetry, but it expressed her feelings exactly, and, anyhow, it did what it was meant to do. The white mole rubbed against her ankles even as she spoke. She caught it up.