We lifted the body out and carried it across the meadow, the Vicar taking the shoulders and I the heels.  And now came the real hazard of the night.  If the coastguard or any belated wanderer should blunder upon us, we stood convicted of kidnapping a corpse, and (as the Vicar afterwards allowed) there was simply no explanation to be given.  When we gained the orchard and pushed through the broken fence, every twig that crackled fetched my heart into my mouth:  and I drew my first breath of something like ease when at length, in the withy bed at the foot of Gunner’s Meadow, we laid our burden down behind the ruin of an old cob-wall and took a short rest before essaying the beach.

But that breath was hardly drawn before I laid a warning hand on the Vicar’s sleeve.  Someone was coming down the cliff-track:  the coastguard, no doubt.  He halted on the wooden footbridge, struck a match and lit his pipe.  From our covert not ten yards away I saw the glow on his face as he shielded the match in the hollow of both his hands.  It was the coastguard—­a fellow called Simms.  His match lit, I expected him to resume his walk.  But no:  he loitered there.  For what reason, on earth?  Luckily his back was towards us now:  but to me, as I cowered in the plashy mud and prayed against sneezing, it seemed that the damnatory smell of the Vicar’s lantern must carry for half a mile at least.

And now I heard another footstep, coming from the westward, and a loose stone kicked over the cliff.  Another coastguard!  The pair hailed each other, and stood on the footbridge talking together for a good three minutes.

Then to our infinite relief they parted with a “So long!” and each made slowly off by the way he had come.  It was just a meeting of the patrols after all.

Another ten minutes must have gone by before we dared to lift the body again:  and after a nervous while in crossing the beach we found the boat left high and dry by the ebb, and had an interminable job to get her down to the water without noise.  I climbed in and took the oars:  the Vicar lifted a sizeable stone on board and followed.

“The Carracks,” he whispered.  “That’s the spot he named to me.”

So I pulled out towards the Carracks, which are three points of rock lying just within the main barrier of Menawhidden, where it breaks up towards its western end into a maze of islets.  While I pulled, the Vicar knelt on the bottom-boards and made fast the stone to John Emmet’s feet.

Well, I need not tell the rest of our adventure at length.  We reached the Carracks, and there the Vicar pulled out a short surplice from the immense inner pocket of his pea-jacket, donned it, and read the burial service in due form by the light of his dark lantern:  and by the light of it, as I arranged John Emmet’s shroud, I had my first and last glimpse of his face—­a thin face, old and hollow, with grey side-whiskers:  a face extraordinarily pallid:  in other circumstances perhaps not noticeable unless it were for a look of extreme weariness which had lasted even into the rest of death.