CHAPTER II
THE FEAST OF SAINTE BARBE
On the morning of December 4 in that same year a postman walked up thenarrow path leading to the front door of Mere Pitou's house in the RueMathias, Pont Aven, and handed in a bundle of letters. The family was atbreakfast, the _petit dejeuner_ of coffee and rolls that stays theappetite in every French household until a more substantial meal isprepared at noon. The weather was mild and bright, though a gustysou'westerly wind was blowing; so door and windows were open.
Barbe saw the postman ere he unlatched the garden gate, and roseexcitedly, nearly upsetting a cup in her haste.
"Why, what's the rush?" cried Ingersoll. "And who in the world are allthese letters for?"
"Father dear, have you forgotten the date? This is Barbe's name day,"said Yvonne.
"Oh, that's the explanation of tonight's festivity," laughed Ingersoll."Sorry. It quite slipped my mind. Of course she has wagonloads offriends who make a point of remembering these things. Lucky Barbe! And,by the way, Madame, what about those pictures which the Lady of LeFaouet was to dispose of? It's high time she was getting busy. Here arethree months sped and--if anything rather a slump in Ingersolls.Actually, my best commission thus far is a series of picture postcardsof Le Pouldu--with benefits deferred till next season."
"Perhaps the good saint knew that you kept your tongue in your cheekwhile you were seeking her help," retorted Madame.
"Impossible. It was lolling out. You ungrateful one, didn't I climb thehill twice for your sake?"
* * * * *
Barbe exchanged a friendly word with the postman, who was well aware ofthe cause of this sudden increase in the mail delivery at the cottage.Then she ran in.
"One for you, M'sieu'--all the rest for me," she announced gleefully.
Ingersoll took his letter. It bore the Pouldu postmark and the printedname of a hotel. Usually such missives came from brother artists; butthe handwriting on the envelop was essentially of the type that Frenchhotelkeepers cultivate for the utter bamboozling of their foreignpatrons. Yvonne glanced at it with some curiosity, and was still moresurprised to see the look of humorous bewilderment on her father's facewhen he had mastered its contents.
"I take back everything I said, or even thought, about Sainte Barbe," hecried. "Learn how she has squelched me! The proprietor of the chiefhotel at Le Pouldu offers four hundred francs for a picture of the_plage_ with his hotel in the center. Certainly four hundred is a heapshort of a thousand, which was the sum I named to her saintship; butthen, a _hotelier_ isn't a dealer, and he promises to pay cash if thesketch is delivered in a week, because he wants it for a summer poster.Yvonne, have you finished breakfast? Run and find Peridot, there's adear, and ask him if we can sail to Le Pouldu this morning. It'll savetime to go by sea, and the tide will serve, I know. If Peridot says theweather is all right, drop in at Julia's, and invite Tollemache. We'lllunch gloriously with my hotel man, rub in the best part of the drawingafterward, and be back here in good time for the feast."
* * * * *
Yvonne hurried out. The hour was half-past eight, and the tide in theestuary of the Aven was already on the ebb. But she had not far to go.The Rue Mathias (nowadays glorified by a much more ambitious name) wasnot a minute's walk from the bridge that gives the village its name.Another minute brought her to the quay, where the brawling river escapesfrom its last millwheel, and tumbles joyously into tidal water. She waslucky. Peridot was there, mending a blue sardine net,--a natty,square-shouldered sailor, unusually fair for a Breton, though his blondhair was French enough in its bristliness, as a section of his scalpwould have provided a first-rate clothes brush. He touched his cap witha smile when she appeared, and in answer to her query raised to theheavens those gray-green eyes which had earned him such a euphoniousnickname.
"Yes, Mademoiselle Yvonne, we can make Le Pouldu by ten o'clock withthis wind," he said. "We may get a wetting; but it won't be the first.Is--er--is Madeleine coming?"
"Not today. She promised to help Mere Pitou with tonight's supper. Youwill be there?"
"Wind and weather permitting, Ma'mselle. We go in your own boat, Isuppose?"
"Yes. Can you allow fifteen minutes?"
"There will be plenty of water for the next half-hour."
Yvonne raced off again, this time to the Hotel Julia, not the hugemodern annex,--that dominates the tiny marketplace of Pont Aven,--butthe oldtime hostelry itself, tucked in snugly behind its four sycamores,like some sedate matron ever peering up in wonderment at its overgrownchild across the street. In winter the habitues--the coterie of artistsand writers who cluster under the wing of the famous Julia Guillou--eatin the dining room of the smaller hotel.
Crossing the terrace, a graveled part of the square shielded by thetrees, Yvonne met Mademoiselle Julia herself, bustling forth to inspecteggs, poultry, and buckets of fish. This kindly, outspoken,resourceful-looking woman has tended and housed and helped at least twogenerations of painters. In her way she has done more for art than manyacademies.
"Is Monsieur Tollemache at breakfast, Mademoiselle?" inquired Yvonne.
Julia smiled broadly. Evidently it was the most natural thing imaginablethat the pretty American girl, known to everyone in the village, shouldbe asking the whereabouts of the stalwart youngster who would never bean artist, but was one of the hotel's most valued guests.
"_Oui, ma cherie!_ I heard him shouting to Marie for three boiled eggsnot so long ago. Out of three eggs one hatches a good meal. And how isyour father? I haven't set eyes on him this week."
"He is so busy, Mademoiselle. There is so little daylight."
"Bring him to dinner on Sunday. We're roasting two of the biggest geeseyou ever saw!"
"He will be delighted, I'm sure."
Then Julia marched to conquer the venders of eatables. There would be aterrific argument; but the founder of modern Pont Aven would prevail.
Yvonne looked in through an open window of a delightful room, paneled inoak--on every panel a picture bearing a signature more or less eminentin the world of color. Tollemache was there, tapping his third egg.
"Lorry," she said, "Father and I are sailing to Le Pouldu. Will youcome?"
"Will a duck swim?" was the prompt reply. "When do we start?"
"Soon. Be at the quay in ten minutes."
"By the clock. Plenty of oilskins in the locker?"
"Yes."
She sped away. A Frenchman, an artist who knew the Breton coast in allweathers, shook his head.
"Dangerous work, yachting off Finistere in December," he said. "Whatsort of boat are you going in?"
"Ingersoll's own tub, a _vague_--a sardine boat, you know."
"First-rate craft, of course. But mind you're not caught in a change ofwind. The barometer is falling."
"Oh, as for that, we'll probably have Peridot in charge, and he was bornwith a caul; so he'll never be drowned. Even if he's not there,Ingersoll and Yvonne are good sailors, and I'm no fresh-water amateur."
"Well--good luck! I only ask you not to despise the Atlantic. Why isIngersoll going to Le Pouldu at this time of the year?"
"Don't know, and don't care. It's an unexpected holiday for me; so mySalon study of the Bois d'Amour in winter must miss a day."
The Frenchman sighed; whether on account of the doubtful prospect beforeTollemache's Salon picture or because of his own vanished youth, itwould be hard to say.
"What a charming peasant girl--and how on earth did she acquire Englishwith that perfect accent?" said a woman, a newcomer.
"She is the daughter of a celebrated American artist," explained theFrenchman.
"But why does she wear the Breton costume?"
"Because she has good taste."
"Oh! Is that a hit at current fashions?"
The Frenchman shrugged his shoulders. "Madame asked for information," hesaid. "To wander off into an essay on clot
hes would be impolite."
* * * * *
Before nine o'clock the Hirondelle, registered No. 415 at Concarneau,was speeding down the seven kilometers of the Aven estuary on arapid-falling tide. Owing to the force and direction of the wind itwould have been a waste of time to hoist a sail, even in those reachesof the winding river where some use might have been made of it.Tollemache and Peridot (whose real name was Jean Jacques Larraidou)rigged two long sweeps, and Yvonne took the tiller, keeping the boat inmid-stream to gain the full benefit of the current. In forty minutesthey were abreast of the fortlike hotel at Port Manech, the summeroffshoot of the Hotel Julia, and a steel-blue line on the horizon,widening each instant, told of the nearness of the sea. It was an unevenline too, ever and anon broken by a white-capped hillock.
Peridot, pulling his oar inboard, poised himself erect for a few secondswith an arm thrown round the foremast, and gazed steadily seaward."She'll jump a bit out there," he said; though the fierce whistling ofthe wind drowned his words. He was aware of that, because he convertedboth hands into a megaphone when he turned and shouted to Yvonne. "We'lltake the inside passage, Ma'mselle."
Before attempting to hoist the foresail he rummaged in a locker andproduced oilskin coats and sou'westers. There was no delay. The fourdonned them quickly. Yvonne had changed her Breton dress for a shortskirt and coat of heather mixture cloth, because coif and collar of finelinen were ill adapted to seagoing in rough weather.
Peridot held up three fingers. The girl nodded. Peridot and Tollemachehauled at the sail, and Yvonne kept the boat in the eye of the winduntil three reefs were tied securely. Then the Hirondelle swung round toher task. She careened almost to the port gunwale under the firstfurious lash of the gale, and a sheet of spray beat noisily on oilskinsand deck. But the stanch little craft steadied herself, and leaped intoher best pace.
Ingersoll dived into the cabin, and reappeared with his pipe alight, thebowl held in a closed and gloved hand. Tollemache made play with acigarette. Peridot clambered aft to relieve Yvonne.
"We'll make Le Pouldu in little more than the hour," he said.
"It's blowing half a gale," said the girl.
"Yes. If the wind doesn't veer, we should have a record trip. But weshouldn't start back a minute after three o'clock."
"Oh, my father will see to that. Moreover, we're due at Mere Pitou's atsix."
Peridot showed all his white teeth in a smile. Madeleine would be there.He meant to marry Madeleine. There was no use in asking her to wed untilafter the Festival of the Gorse Flowers next August, since her heart wasset on being Queen. Once that excitement was ended, Heaven willing,Madeleine Demoret would become Madame Larraidou!
In taking the rudder the man was not showing any distrust of Yvonne'snerve; but there was just a possibility that a crisis might call forinstant decision, when the only warning would come from that sixth sensewhich coastal fishermen develop in counteracting the sea's fitful moods.
Perhaps once during the hour--perhaps not once in a year--some monstrouswave would roar in from the Atlantic, seeking to devour every smallcraft in its path. No one can account for these phenomena. They mayarise from lunar influence, or from some peculiar action of the tides;but that they occur, and with disastrous results if unheeded, everyfisherman from Stornoway to Cadiz will testify. Their size and fury aremore marked in a southwesterly gale than at any other time, and the onlysafe maneuver for a boat sailing across the wind is to bring her sharplyhead on to the fast-moving ridge, and ride over it. Yvonne knew of theseoccasional sea dragons, but had never seen one. She knew what to do too,and for an instant was vexed with Peridot. He read her thought.
"I'd trust my own life to you, Ma'mselle," he said gallantly; "but I'dnever forgive myself if anything happened to you."
She smiled in spite of her pique. To make her voice heard withoutscreaming, she put her lips close to his ear. "This time, if anybodygoes, we all go," she cried. He shook his head. "No, no, Ma'mselle. Thesea will never get me," he said. "Hold tight here. This is the bar."
* * * * *
Certainly, even among experienced yachtsmen, there would not be lackingthose who might have regarded the Hirondelle's present voyage as a pieceof folly. There is no wilder coast in Europe than the barrier of shaggyrock that France opposes to the ocean from St. Malo to Biarritz. AtFinistere, in particular, each headland is not a breakwater, but a ruin.During heavy storms the seas dash in frenzy up a hundred feet ofshattered cliff, the Atlantic having smashed and overthrown every sheerwall of rock ages ago.
Of course the adventurers were not facing a No. 8 gale. That, indeed,would have been rank lunacy. But the estuaries of the Aven and theBelon, joining at Port Manech, were sending down no inconsiderablevolume of water to meet a strong wind, and the opposing forces werewaging bitter war. A mile farther on a channel ran between the mainlandand a group of rocks called Les Verres. There the tide and wind wouldnot be so greatly at variance, and the partly submerged reef wouldlessen the force of the sea; though the only signs of its existence werea patch of high-flung spray and a small tower, with a black buoy at itseasterly extremity. This was what Peridot had called the "insidepassage." To the landsman it was a figure of speech. To the sailor itmeant seas diminished to half their volume as compared with the "dirt"outside.
The Hirondelle raced through the turmoil at the bar as though sheenjoyed it, and, once the islets were to windward, the journey becameexhilarating. None of the four people on board displayed the leastconcern. Indeed, they reveled in the excursion. When their craft sweptinto the sheltered cove at Le Pouldu, not without a tossing on anotherbar, and was brought up alongside the small quay, their flushed facesand shining eyes showed that they looked on the outing as a thoroughlyenjoyable one.
* * * * *
They were ready for an early luncheon too, and did full justice to themenu. Afterward, while Ingersoll planned his picture, Yvonne andTollemache strolled along the right bank of the Laita to the hamlet ofLe Pouldu.
The girl told her companion of the singular coincidence that brought herfather an unexpected commission by that morning's post; but Tollemachepooh-poohed it.
"You're becoming almost as superstitious as these Bretons," he said."It's high time your father took you to New York for a spell. Spookscan't live there since the automobile came along. They don't like thefumes of petrol, I fancy. But these silly Bretons appeal to a saint ordread a devil for every little thing. One stained-glass proposition cancure rheumatism in a man and another spavin in a horse. It's unlucky togather and eat blackberries because the Crown of Thorns was made out ofbrambles. You can shoot a wretched tomtit; but you mustn't touch amagpie. If you want to marry a girl, you pray to Saint This; if you'reanxious to shunt her, you go on your marrow-bones to Saint That. I'mfond of Brittany and its folk; but I can't stomach their legends. Lookat that pin-dropping business at Sainte Barbe's well! Poor Madeleinecouldn't get a pin home to save her life; whereas everybody knows thatshe and Peridot will make a match of it before this time next year."
Yvonne did not like to hear her friends' amiable weaknesses exposed thusruthlessly. "If Homer nods, a poor girl who has watched ever so manylove affairs since A.D. 235 may surely be forgiven an occasionalmistake," she said.
"Has she been at it so long? What is the yarn?"
"Please don't speak so disrespectfully of Saint Barbara. Because shewanted to marry someone whom her father didn't approve of he imprisonedher in a tower, and when she was converted to Christianity beheadedher."
"The old rascal! Did the other fellow--the one she liked--climb thetower? Perhaps that accounts for the rings."
"It is possible. I have no doubt men were just as foolish seventeencenturies ago as they are today."
"Thanks. That personal touch helps a lot. But, supposing I asked yourfather to sanction----"
"If you will apply the moral, I must remind you that I am to refuse myfi
rst offer. But don't let us talk nonsense. It is time we made for theharbor."
"Crushed again!" murmured Tollemache, assuming an air of blitheindifference. He was only partly successful. Stealing a glance atYvonne, he noted her heightened color and a curiously defiant glint inher blue eyes. Unconsciously she quickened her pace too, and Tollemacheinterpreted these outward and visible tokens of displeasure as hostileto the notion that had sprung into thrilling life in his mind that dayat Le Faouet, when he peered down into Yvonne's agonized face when hewas clinging like a fly to the wall of the tower.
"She regards me as a silly ass," he communed bitterly, "and not withoutgood cause. What place do I fill in the world, anyhow? God created me alive-wire American, and the devil egged me on to spoil clean canvas. I'mlittle better than a hobo, and she knows it. Well, I'll swallow mymedicine.
"I say, Kiddie," he cried aloud, "you needn't go off in a huff justbecause I was talking through my hat. Wait till I light a cigarette."
Though he was not sure that the bantering protest had deceived her, shepretended that it had; so the object aimed at was achieved. ButTollemache was of the tough fiber that regards no sacrifice as worthwhile unless it is complete.
"If you knew the facts, Yvonne, you'd never get mad with me when I talkabout marrying anybody," he went on. "Why do I live in Pont Aven all theyear round? Because it's cheap. Last year I earned three hundred andtwenty francs for three pictures. At that rate of progress any girl whomarried me would jolly soon starve."
Yvonne remembered the famous three. Two were portraits of the oleographorder, in which Tollemache had shamelessly flattered his sitters. Forthese he received the three hundred francs. The twenty were paid for asketch of a new villa which the builder wished to send to hismother-in-law! Still, she allowed herself to be surprised.
"Of course I knew you were only joking, Lorry," she said. "And while weare on the subject, I may as well tell you that I shall never leave myfather. What you say about your means is rather astonishing, for allthat. How can you possibly hire autos and live as you do?"
"Oh, I don't," he explained, with a sudden grimness of tone that she hadnever heard before. "My father pays all my bills,--living expenses,tailors, and that sort of thing, you know. The moment I marry withouthis approval I revert to my pocket-money allowance."
The girl knew they were trenching again on a dangerous topic. She was soexquisitely sensitive that she felt the imminence of some avowal that itwould be better, perhaps, not to hear.
"What does money matter if we are happy?" she cried cheerfully. "And oursmall community in Pont Aven is a very united and pleasant one, don'tyou think?"
"Top notch," said he. "There's Ingersoll, coming down from the front.Bet you fifty centimes he has washed in a little gem--something Icouldn't touch if I tried every day for ten years!"
"Dad is really very clever," agreed Yvonne, momentarily deaf to theirony of the words. "I often wonder why he has remained in our villageeighteen years. People say he would soon find a place in Paris or NewYork. Sometimes I fancy that my mother's death must have distressed himbeyond measure. He never speaks of her, even to me. Perhaps he can'tbear to revive sad memories."
"I can understand that," said Tollemache. "I believe I should go dottyif married to a woman I really loved, and I lost her."
Yvonne darted into a shop to buy caramels. She had to escape somehow.When she emerged one side of her face was bulging, and she held out acardboard box.
"Take one," she gurgled. Not yet twenty, she was sufficient of a womanto play a part when it suited her. By the time the two had joinedIngersoll they were boy and girl again, and the curtain, lifted for aninstant on a tragedy, had fallen.
Tollemache, searching for some commonplace remark to relieve the tensionof his own feelings, noticed the drift of smoke curling from a cottagechimney.
"What has happened to the wind?" he said.
"It has veered to the southeast, Monsieur," answered Peridot.
"I thought something of the sort had taken place, but was so busy that Idid not pay any heed," said Ingersoll. Then his forehead wrinkledreflectively. "Southeast from southwest," he muttered. "On a rising tidethat change should kick up a nasty sea. Is the return trip quite safe,Peridot?"
"The sea will be a trifle worse, Monsieur; but we'll travel on an evenkeel."
"And be swept by an occasional wave from stem to stern?"
"I've heard of such things," grinned Peridot.
"And very uncomfortable things they are too. Yvonne, you must decide.Shall we take the rough passage, or hire the hotel auto?"
Yvonne rounded her eyes at her father, and stepped on board theHirondelle.
He laughed. "That settles it!" he cried. "'Of Christian souls more havebeen wrecked on shore than ever were lost at sea.' But I warn you, mymerry adventuress. Before half an hour has passed you may be ready tocry with honest old Gonzalo in 'The Tempest,' 'Now would I give athousand furlongs of sea for an acre of barren ground, long heath, brownfurze, anything,' obviously having the coast of Finistere in his mind."
* * * * *
The behavior of the maritime folk of Le Pouldu showed that there was anelement of risk in the voyage. Knots of fishermen watched Peridot'spreparations with a professional eye, and spat approval when he castloose a small jibsail. A few carried interest so far that they climbedthe seaward cliff to watch the boat's progress across the Basse Persacand Basse an Hiss, the two nearest shallows on the homeward line acrossthe Anse du Pouldu.
The Hirondelle passed the bar of the Laita quickly and safely. A seathat would have smothered her in churning water broke within a boat'slength. After that escape she made a drier passage than her occupantsexpected. She was abreast of Douelan, and Yvonne was listening to thethunder of the Atlantic on the black reef that stretches from KerlogalMill to Les Cochons de Beg Morg, while her eyes were watching thechanging bearings of the church spires of Moelan and Clohars, when ashout from Peridot recalled her wandering thoughts.
"There's a steam yacht out there, making heavy weather," he said.
Ingersoll had evidently noted the other vessel already, because he hadgone into the cabin--not the cubbyhole of a sardine boat, but the holdconverted into a saloon fitted with a table screwed to the deck, andfour comfortable bunks--and reappeared with a pair of binoculars. Fromthat moment all eyes were fixed on the newcomer.
At a guess she might be coming from Brest to Lorient, because it wassafe to assume that her Captain was not a fool, and he must have startedthe day's run before the change of wind. It must remembered that thevery conditions that helped the five-ton Hirondelle were the worstpossible for the sixty- or seventy-ton stranger, hard driven into a headsea whipped by a fierce wind. She had shaped a course outside l'IsleVerte, and was well clear of the Ar Gazek shallow when first sighted bythose on board the Hirondelle. The tidal stream was running stronglythere, and Yvonne with difficulty repressed a cry of dismay when theyacht's bare masts and white funnel vanished completely in a cloud ofspray.
"If that fellow has any sense, he'll turn while he is able, and make forConcarneau," said Peridot, as the spume dissipated, and the strickenvessel's spars came into view again.
"Perhaps he doesn't know this coast. Can we signal him?" inquired thegirl.
"He wouldn't take any notice of a fishing boat. The skipper of aten-centime steam yacht thinks more of himself than the commander of anAtlantic liner. Of course he should make Lorient tonight--if heunderstands the lights."
The self-confident Peridot seldom qualified his words: now he had twicespoken with an if. Yvonne hauled herself forward, and joined her fatherand Tollemache.
* * * * *
"Peridot thinks that the vessel out there may get into difficulties,"she said. "I suggested that we should signal her; but he says she wouldpay no heed."
"What sort of signal?"
"To turn back--Concarneau for choice."
"Let's try, anyhow. Lorry, you
'll find a codebook in the chart locker,and flags in the one beneath. Look for 'Recommend change of course' orsomething of the sort, and the Concarneau code letters. Get thenecessary flags, and we'll run 'em up."
Peridot, who missed nothing, understood Tollemache's quick descent intothe cabin. His shout reached father and daughter clearly.
"They're signaling from the Brigneau station already. It'll do no harmif we give him a tip too."
During the next ten minutes the situation remained unchanged, save thatyacht and fishing boat neared each other rapidly, the Hirondelletraveling three kilometers to the yacht's one, while lines of flags,each identical--whereat Tollemache winked at Yvonne and preenedhimself--fluttered from signal station and mast. The yacht disregardedthese warnings, and pressed on.
Ingersoll was watching her through the glasses; but Yvonne's keen visionhardly needed such aid.
"They must have seen both signals," she said. "There are two men on thebridge. What a big man one of them is! Can you make out her name, Dad?"
"No. I've been trying to; but the seas pouring over the fore part renderthe letters indistinct. You have a look. Mind you brace yourself tightagainst that stay."
He handed her the binoculars, and Yvonne lost a few seconds in adjustingthe focus.
"The first letter is an S," she announced. "There are six. The last oneis an A. Oh, what a blow that sea must have given her! It pitched onboard just beneath the bridge. Why, what's the matter? She is swinginground!"
The girl was sufficiently versed in the ways of the sea to realize thatno shipmaster would change course in that manner, nor attempt such amaneuver at the instant his craft was battling against hundreds of tonsof water in motion.
"_Gars!_" yelled Peridot excitedly. "She's broken down--shaft snapped,or propeller gone!"
* * * * *
At once the fierce and thrilling struggle had become a disaster. Theyacht was drifting broadside on, utterly at the mercy of wind and tide.Unless a miracle happened, she would be ground to matchwood on thatrock-bound coast within a few minutes. Unhappily she had gainedconsiderable speed in the direction where destruction awaited her beforeher crew could let go the anchor. The agonized watchers from shore andboat knew when a fluke caught in some crevice of the rocks buried twelvefathoms deep, because the vessel's bows were brought up against the seawith a jerk. Then she fell away again. The cable couldn't stand thestrain. It had parted.
"Good God!" groaned Ingersoll. "Every soul on board will be drownedbefore our eyes!"
Yvonne could not speak. Neither could she see. She was blinded withtears. The suddenness of the affair was appalling. At one instant shehad been following a fascinating fight between man and the elements, afight in which man was gaining ground yard by yard. Now by some trick ofFate man was delivered, bound and crippled, to become the sport ofsavage and relentless enemies. She heard her father shouting to Peridot:
"Bear a couple of points to port. They may lower a boat."
"No use," came the answer. "Better crack on. They'll strike on LesVerres. We may pick up one or two in the channel if they wear lifebelts."
Tollemache had leaped down into the cabin. He was out on deck again now,bareheaded, having discarded oilskin coat and sou'wester. A cork jacketwas strapped round his tall, alert body. If any life could be snatchedback from the abyss, Tollemache might be trusted not to spare himself inthe effort. In that moment of stress the cheery, devil-may-care Americanartist had become a calm, clear-headed man of action. He looked almostheroic, standing on the sloping deck forward, with one sinewy,brown-skinned hand clasping a mast-hoop, and the other thrust into apocket of his Norfolk jacket. By a queer trick of memory Yvonne wasreminded of her fright when she saw Lorry clinging to the rings ofSainte Barbe's tower. He had come through that ordeal unscathed.
Would he conquer in this far more dreadful test? There he could dependon his own taut muscles and iron nerve. Here he was at the mercy ofcircumstances. Still, it was helpful to see Lorry's fingers clenched ona ring. Somehow it seemed to offer good augury.