A second figure had joined the first. It was pointing with outstretched arm toward the sea.
A rush of anger and bitterness carried Jasper away. He fled from Stonehanger, cursing it and himself.
In two minutes he was galloping Devil Dick down the lane.
"In the pay of the French! But Nance——? I'll not believe it!"
[XIII]
Strong language prevailed next day, and the eloquence of disgust. Mounted men had gone galloping along the roads and lanes, overtaking farm wagons laden with people and household gear, and stopping at inns to drink and spread the news.
"A false alarm. The French never showed their noses out of Boulogne."
"Then who fired the beacon?"
Angry-faced farmers asked each other this question outside the village inns after they had returned their teams and rumbled back the way they had come. Only fools and red-coats saw the humour of the thing. Respectable citizens were angry. Shopkeepers who had sat up all night behind locked doors were ironical and grieved. Women embraced their children and scolded their husbands in the exuberance of their relief. The whole community, like a man who has been scared out of his dignity by boys playing "ghost" at night, flew into a rage, and tried to cover the unseemliness of its panic by a display of valiant indignation.
A big dragoon mounted on a bay horse was emptying a pewter pot outside the principal inn at Hurstmonceux. The dragoon's face looked fat and round and lazy under his heavy helmet. A fair crowd had gathered about him. Beer and admiration are equally cheap.