Judith’s heart stood still, and her blood curdled in her veins. If the cloud were to roll away—and she could see far off its silvery fringe, she would become visible. The voice was that of a man, but whether that of a smuggler or of a coast-guard she could not guess. By neither did she care to be discovered. By the dim, uncertain light she stole off the path, and sank upon the ground among some masses of gorse that stood on the common. Between the prickly tufts she might lie, and in her dark cloak be mistaken for a patch of furze. She drew her feet under the skirt, that the white stockings might not betray her, and plucked the hood of her cloak closely round her face. The gorse was sharp, and the spikes entered her hands and feet, and pricked her as she turned herself about between the bushes to bring herself deeper among them.
From where she lay she could see the faintly illumined horizon, and against that horizon figures were visible, one—then another—a third—she could not count accurately, for there came several together; but she was convinced there must have been over a dozen men.
“It’s a’most too rough to-night, I reckon,” said one of the men.
“No, it is not—the wind is not direct on shore. They’ll try it.”
“Coppinger and his chaps are down in the cove already,” said a third. “They wouldn’t go out if they wasn’t expecting the boats from the Black Prince.”
“You are sure they’re down, Wyvill?”
“Sure and sartain. I seed ’em pass, and mighty little I liked to let ’em go by—without a pop from my pistol. But I’d my orders. No orders against the pistol going off of itself, Captain, if I have a chance presently?”
No answer was given to this; but he who had been addressed as Captain asked—
“Are the asses out?”
“Yes; a whole score, I reckon.”