"For, see you, the Race! And that was the first night after the storm, and it would be running like the deuce, bidemme!" "It's best not to know how to swim if it leads you to do things like that, oui-gia!" "When a man's time comes, he cuts his cleft in the water, whether he can swim or not, crais b'en!" "And that slip of a Nance had been over there last night—par madé, some folks have the courage!" "All the same, it was madness—"
But behind all the broken chatter, in every mind was the grim question, "Who is it, then, that is doing these things amongst us?" And there was a feeling of mighty discomfort abroad.
All the same, they cheered vigorously as the boat came speeding back, and they saw Gard sitting between Nance and the Sénéchal, and crowded round as it ran up the shingle, and would have lifted him out and carried him shoulder-high through the tunnel and up the road, if he would have had it.
They saw how his imprisonment on the rock—"Ma fé, think of it!—all through that storm, too!"—had told upon him. His cheeks were hollow, and his eyes sunken, and he looked very weary—"and, man doux, no wonder, after eighteen days on L'Etat!"—though their friendly shouts had put a touch of colour in his face and a spark in his eyes for the moment.
"Now, away home, all of you!" ordered the Sénéchal. "We've all had enough to think about for one day. To-morrow we will see what is to be done."
"Too much!" croaked one old crone, who had something of a reputation among her neighbours. "What I want to know is—who killed Peter Mauger?"
And that was the question that occupied most minds in Sark that night.