Carette of Sark | Page 4

shrubs, though, in the more

exposed places, it is true, the trees suffer somewhat from the lichen,
which blows in from the sea, and clings to their windward sides, and
slowly eats their lives away.
And now to tell you of that which happened when I was three years old,
and I will make it all as clear as I can, from all that I have been able to
pick up, and from my knowledge of the places which are still very
much as they were then.
The front door of our Island is the tunnel in the rock cut by old Helier
de Carteret nearly three hundred years ago. Standing in the tunnel, you
see on one side the shingle of the beach where the boats lie but poorly
sheltered from the winter storms, though we are hoping before long to
have a breakwater capable of affording better shelter than the present
one. You see also the row of great capstans at the foot of the cliff by
which the boats are hauled as far out of reach of the waves as possible,
though sometimes not far enough. Through the other end of the tunnel
you look into the Creux Road, which leads straight up to the life and
centre of the Island.
Facing due east and sloping sharply to the sea, this narrow way
between the hills gets all the sun, and on a fine summer's morning
grows drowsy with the heat. The crimson and creamy-gold of the
opening honeysuckle swings heavy with its own sweetness. The
hart's-tongue ferns, matted all over the steep banks, hang down like the
tongues of thirsty dogs. The bees blunder sleepily from flower to
flower. The black and crimson butterflies take short flights and long
panting rests. Even the late wild roses seem less saucily cheerful than
usual, and the branching ferns on the hillsides look as though they were
cast in bronze.
I have seen it all just so a thousand times, and have passed down from
the sweet blowing wind above to the crisp breath of the sea below,
without wakening the little valley from its sleep.
But on one such day it had a very rude awakening. For, without a
moment's warning, half the population of the Island came pouring
down the steep way towards the sea. First came four burly fishermen in

blue guernseys and stocking caps, carrying between them, in a sling of
ropes, a fifth man, whose arms and legs were tightly bound. His dark
face was bruised and discoloured, and darker still with the anger that
was in him. He was a powerful man and looked dangerous even in his
bonds.
Behind these came Pierre Le Masurier, the Sénéchal, and I can imagine
how tight and grim his face would be set to a job which he did not like.
For, though he was the magistrate of the Island, and held the law in his
own hands, with the assistance of his two connétables, Elie Guille and
Jean Vaudin, they were all just farmers like the rest. M. le Sénéchal
was, indeed, a man of substance, and had acquired some learning, and
perhaps even a little knowledge of legal matters, but he trusted chiefly
to his good common-sense in deciding the disputes which now and
again sprang up among his neighbours. And as for Elie Guille and Jean
Vaudin, they had very little to do as officers of the law, but had their
hands very full with the farming and fishing and care of their families,
and when they had to turn constable it was somewhat against the grain,
and they did it very mildly, and gave as little offence as possible.
And behind M. le Sénéchal came two or three more men and half the
women and children of the Island, the women all agog with excitement,
the children dodging in and out to get a glimpse of the bound man. And
none of them said a word. The only sound was the grinding of the
heavy boots in front, and the bustle of the passage of such a crowd
along so narrow a way. There had been words and to spare up above.
This was the end of the matter and of the man in bonds, so far as the
Island was concerned,--at least that was the intention. There was no
exultation fever the prisoner, no jibes and jeers such as might have been
elsewhere. They were simply interested to see the end.
Behind them all, slowly, and as though against his will yet determined
to see it out, came a tall man of middle age, like the rest half farmer,
half fisherman, but of a finer--and sadder--countenance than any there.
When all the rest poured noisily through the tunnel and spread out
along the