Now our parish had stood for some weeks in apprehension of a visit from these gentry.  The riding-officer, Mr. Luke, had threatened us with them more than once.  I knew, moreover, that a run of goods was contemplated:  and without questions of mine—­it did not become a parish priest in those days to know too much—­it had reached my ears that Laquedem was himself in Roscoff bargaining for the freight.  But we had all learnt confidence in him by this time—­his increasing bodily weakness never seemed to affect his cleverness and resource—­and no doubt occurred to me that he would contrive to checkmate this new move of the riding-officer’s.  Nevertheless, and partly I dare say out of curiosity, to have a good look at the soldiers, I slipped on my clothes and hurried downstairs and across the garden.

My hand was on the gate when I heard footsteps, and July Constantine came running down the hill, her red cloak flapping and her hair powdered with mist.

“Hullo!” said I, “nothing wrong, I hope?” She turned a white, distraught face to me in the dawn.

“Yes, yes!  All is wrong!  I saw the soldiers coming—­I heard them a mile away, and sent up the rocket from the church-tower.  But the lugger stood in—­they must have seen!—­she stood in, and is right under Sheba Point now—­and he—­”

I whistled.  “This is serious.  Let us run out towards the point; we—­ you, I mean—­may be in time to warn them yet.”

So we set off running together.  The morning breeze had a cold edge on it, but already the sun had begun to wrestle with the bank of sea-fog.  While we hurried along the cliffs the shoreward fringe of it was ripped and rolled back like a tent-cloth, and through the rent I saw a broad patch of the cove below; the sands (for the tide was at low ebb) shining like silver; the dragoons with their greatcoats thrown back from their scarlet breasts and their accoutrements flashing against the level rays.  Seaward, the lugger loomed through the weather; but there was a crowd of men and black boats—­half a score of them—­by the water’s edge, and it was clear to me at once that a forced run had been at least attempted.

I had pulled up, panting, on the verge of the cliff, when July caught me by the arm.

“The sand!”

She pointed; and well I remember the gesture—­the very gesture of the hand in the fresco—­the forefinger extended, the thumb shut within the palm. “The sand . . . he told me . . .”

Her eyes were wide and fixed.  She spoke, not excitedly at all, but rather as one musing, much as she had answered Laquedem on the morning when he waved the daisy-chain before her.

I heard an order shouted, high up the beach, and the dragoons came charging down across the sand.  There was a scuffle close by the water’s edge; then, as the soldiers broke through the mob of free-traders and wheeled their horses round, fetlock deep in the tide, I saw a figure break from the crowd and run, but presently check himself and walk composedly towards the cliff up which climbed the footpath leading to Porthlooe.  And above the hubbub of oaths and shouting, I heard a voice crying distinctly, “Run, man!  Tis after thee they are! Man, go faster!”