Tintageu, and the Platte, and Guillaumesse, and the gleaming Autelets, and La Grune, and on the other side the great black Gouliot rocks, and Moie Batarde, and the long dark side of Brecqhou all seemed straining with wide anxious eyes to learn what was coming. There was a dull growl of surf from below, and low harsh croakings and mewings from the gulls down in Port à la Jument. And we seemed to be all waiting for what should come out of Herm along the red path of the sun.
Carette shivered inside my arm.
"Cold, dearest?" I asked.
"My heart is heavy. Oh, but I wish it was the day after to-morrow, Phil."
"It will come. But we look like having a storm first. Those black clouds—"
"God's storms I do not mind. It is that black Herm—Hark!" and we heard the sound of guns again along the wind. "Do you think they will come here, Phil?"
"I think it quite likely, dear. But we are forearmed and we fight for our homes. If they come, they are a beaten crew bent only on mischief. We shall beat them again."
"You won't go and get yourself killed, Phil dear, just when you've come back to me?"
"That I won't. And when they've come and gone—" and I comforted her with warmer things than words. And Tintageu, and the black Gouliot rocks, and all the straining headlands seemed to look at us for a moment, and then turned and stared out anxiously at Herm.
And then I jumped up quickly, and stood for a moment staring as they stared.