With another rock I could have smashed him where he lay, and at small risk to myself; but hurling rocks in hot blood is one thing and smashing fallen men is another; and Torode, lying on his face, was safer from harm than Torode on his feet with his gun in his hand.

There was excited discussion among his followers, the necessity of securing the wounded man evidently prompting them to an attempt, but no man showing himself desirous of first honours.

But presently I heard a shuffling approach along the path, hands and knees evidently, and Torode’s body was pulled slowly out of my sight.  And then, along the narrow way that leads up into Sercq, there came the sound of many feet, and I knew that all was well.

They came foaming up over the brow, an urgent crowd—­Abraham Guille from Clos Bourel, and Abraham Guille from Dos d’Ane, William Le Masurier from La Jaspellerie, Henri Le Masurier from Grand Dixcart, Thomas Godfray from Dixcart, and Thomas De Carteret from La Vauroque—­just as Carette had come across them and told them of my need.  They had snatched their guns from the hanging racks and come at once.

They gave a shout at sight of me behind the stack and Torode’s body being dragged slowly up the path.  The Herm men gave them a hasty volley and went off over Little Sercq towards Gorey, two of them carrying young Torode between them, and the Sercq men came running across the Coupee to greet me.

“Sercq wins!” cried one.

“Wounded, Phil?” asked another, at sight of my arm, which hung limp and bleeding.

“A scratch on the shoulder.  Torode fired and I downed him with a rock.”

“Shall we follow them and give them a lesson?”

“Let them go,” I said.  “I have got all I wanted, since Carette is safe.”

“Come, then.  She is just round the corner there, getting her breath.  We wouldn’t let her come any nearer.  And here comes your grandfather.”

My grandfather took me to his arms with much emotion.

“Now, God be thanked!” he said, in his great deep voice, which shook as he said it.  “You are come back as from the dead, my boy.  I had given you up before, and when I knew you had gone across to Herm I gave you up again.  Jeanne Falla told me what poor Helier Le Marchant had told her.”

“Jean Le Marchant and Martin were lying sick on Brecqhou—­”

“They are safe at Beaumanoir.”

“Carette does not know about Helier yet.”

“Better so for the present.  We buried him yesterday on Brecqhou.  She believed him dead long since, as did the others.”

Carette jumped up out of the heather, at sound of our voices, and came running towards us.

“Oh, Phil!” she cried, and flung her arms about my neck before them all, and made me a very happy and satisfied man.

“You are wounded?” she cried, at sight of blood on my sleeve.  “Oh, what is it?”

“It is only a trifle, and you have spoiled your sleeve.”