“Myself alone.”
“Can you pilot us in?”
“I know the way.”
“Come up.”
Gaspard remembered Brigond, and he veiled his eyes lest the hate he felt should reveal him. No one could have recognised him as the young pilot of twenty years before. Then his face was cheerful and bright, and in his eye was the fire of youth. Now a thick beard and furrowing lines hid all the look of the past. His voice, too, was desolate and distant.
Brigond clapped him on the shoulder. “How long have you lived off there?” he asked, as he jerked his finger towards the shore.
“A good many years.”
“Did anything strange ever happen there?” Gaspard felt his heart contract again, as it did when Brigond’s hand touched his shoulder.
“Nothing strange is known.”
A vicious joy came into Brigond’s face. His fingers opened and shut. “Safe, by the holy heaven!” he grunted.