“You paid off some of your old score up there, last night, George,” said one of the men who had stood watching the boat which carried Martel back to Guernsey.

“Just a little bit,” said Hamon, as he rubbed his hand gently over a big bruise on the side of his head.  “He’s a devil to fight and as strong as an ox;” and they turned and followed the Senechal and Philip Carre through the tunnel.

“Good riddance!” said a woman in the crowd, taking off her black sun-bonnet and giving it an angry shake before putting it on again.  “We don’t want any of that kind here,”—­with a meaning look at the big fishermen behind, which set them grinning and winking knowingly.

“Aw then, Mistress Guilbert,” said one, lurching uncomfortably under her gaze, with his hands deep in his trouser pockets.  “We others know better than that.”

“And a good thing for you, too.  That kind of work won’t go down in Sercq, let me tell you.  Ma fe, no!” and the crowd dribbled away through the tunnel to get back to its work again.

The Senechal was busy planting late cabbages and time was precious.  The grave-faced fisherman, who had stood behind the crowd, tramped up the narrow road by his side.

“Well, Carre, you’re rid of him.  I hope for good,” said the Senechal.

“Before God, I hope so, M. le Senechal!  He has a devil.”

“How goes it with Mistress Rachel this morning?”

“She says little.”

“But thinks the more, no doubt.  She has suffered more than we know, I fear.”

“Like enough.”

“I never could understand why she threw herself away on a man like that.”

“It was not for want of warning.”

“I am sure.  Well, she has paid.  I hope this ends it.”

But the other shook his head doubtfully, and as they parted at the crossways, he said gloomily, “She’ll know no peace till he’s under the sea or the sod.”  And the Senechal nodded and strode thoughtfully away towards Beauregard, while Carre went on to Havre Gosselin.

When he reached the cottage at the head of the chasm, he lifted the latch and went in.  He was confronted by a small boy of three or so, who at sound of the latch had snatched a stick from the floor, with a frown of vast determination on his baby face—­an odd, meaningful action.

At sight of Philip Carre, however, the crumpled face relaxed instantly, and the youngster launched himself at him with a shout of welcome.

At sound of the latch, too, a girlish figure had started up from the lit-de-fouaille in the corner by the hearth—­the great square couch built out into the room and filled with dried bracken, the universal lounge in the Islands, and generally of a size large enough to accommodate the entire family.

This was Carre’s daughter, Rachel, Martel’s wife.  Her face was very comely.  She was the Island beauty when Martel married her, and much sought after, which made her present state the more bitter to contemplate.  Her face was whiter even than of late, at the moment, by reason of the dark circles of suffering round her eyes and the white cloth bound round her head.  She sat up and looked at her father, with the patient expectancy of one who had endured much and doubted still what might be in store for her.