It was a large wide room, larger than Jeanne Falla’s kitchen at Beaumanoir, and though there was no fern-bed—­and it was the first living-room I had seen without one—­there was a look of great warmth and comfort about it.  There was a fire of driftwood smouldering in a wide clay chimneyplace, and a sweet warm smell of wood smoke in the air.  There were a number of wooden chairs, and a table, and several great black oaken chests curiously carved, and a great rack hanging from the roof, on which I saw hams, and guns, and tarpaulin hats, and oars, and coils of rope.  The far end of the room was dark to one coming in out of the sunshine, but, in some way, and I can hardly tell how, it seemed to me that when the winter gales screamed over Brecqhou that would be a very comfortable room to live in.

I could still see no one, till the voice cried out at sight of me—­

“Now, who in the name of Satan are you, and what do you want here?” And then, in a ship’s bunk at the far end of the room, I saw a face lifted up and scowling at me.

It was the face of a young man, and but for the black scowl on it, and a white cloth tied round above the scowl, it might have been good-looking, for all the Le Marchants were that.

“I’m Phil Carre,” I faltered.  “I’ve come to look for Carette.”

And at that, Carette’s voice came, like a silver pipe, from some hidden place—­

“Phil, mon p’tit, is that you?  I’m here, but you mustn’t come in.  I’m in bed.  I’ve got measles.  Father’s gone across to see Aunt Jeanne about it.”

“I was afraid you’d got drowned, or hurt, or something,” I said.  “If it’s only measles—­”

“Just that—­only measles, and it doesn’t hurt the least bit.”

“How long will it be before you’re better?”

“Oh, days and days, they say.”

“Oh!...  And have you got it too?” I asked of the man in the bunk.

And he looked at me for a minute, and then laughed, and said, “Yes, I’ve got it too.  Don’t you come near me,” for I had come into the room at sound of Carette’s voice, and he looked very much nicer when he laughed.

“Oh—­Hilaire!” cried the unseen Carette.  “What a great big—­”

“Ta-ta!” laughed her brother.  “Little yellow heels should keep out of sight,”—­which was not meant in rudeness, but only, according to an Island saying, that little people should not express opinions on matters which don’t concern them.

Before he could say more, the door behind me swung open and a surprised voice cried—­

“Diantre!  What is this?  And who are you, mon gars?” and I was facing Carette’s father, Jean Le Marchant, of whose doings I had heard many a wild story on Sercq.

He was a very striking-looking man, tall and straight, and well-built.  His face was keen as a hawk’s, and tanned and seamed and very much alive.  His eyes were very sharp and dark, under shaggy white eyebrows.  They seemed to go through me like a knife, and made me wish I had not come.  His hair was quite white, and was cut so short that it bristled all over, and added much to his fierce wide-awake look, as though he scented dangers all round and was ready to tackle them with a firm hand.  He had a long white moustache and no other hair on his face.