Facing due east and sloping sharply to the sea, this narrow way between the hills gets all the sun, and on a fine summer’s morning grows drowsy with the heat.  The crimson and creamy-gold of the opening honeysuckle swings heavy with its own sweetness.  The hart’s-tongue ferns, matted all over the steep banks, hang down like the tongues of thirsty dogs.  The bees blunder sleepily from flower to flower.  The black and crimson butterflies take short flights and long panting rests.  Even the late wild roses seem less saucily cheerful than usual, and the branching ferns on the hillsides look as though they were cast in bronze.

I have seen it all just so a thousand times, and have passed down from the sweet blowing wind above to the crisp breath of the sea below, without wakening the little valley from its sleep.

But on one such day it had a very rude awakening.  For, without a moment’s warning, half the population of the Island came pouring down the steep way towards the sea.  First came four burly fishermen in blue guernseys and stocking caps, carrying between them, in a sling of ropes, a fifth man, whose arms and legs were tightly bound.  His dark face was bruised and discoloured, and darker still with the anger that was in him.  He was a powerful man and looked dangerous even in his bonds.

Behind these came Pierre Le Masurier, the Senechal, and I can imagine how tight and grim his face would be set to a job which he did not like.  For, though he was the magistrate of the Island, and held the law in his own hands, with the assistance of his two connetables, Elie Guille and Jean Vaudin, they were all just farmers like the rest.  M. le Senechal was, indeed, a man of substance, and had acquired some learning, and perhaps even a little knowledge of legal matters, but he trusted chiefly to his good common-sense in deciding the disputes which now and again sprang up among his neighbours.  And as for Elie Guille and Jean Vaudin, they had very little to do as officers of the law, but had their hands very full with the farming and fishing and care of their families, and when they had to turn constable it was somewhat against the grain, and they did it very mildly, and gave as little offence as possible.

And behind M. le Senechal came two or three more men and half the women and children of the Island, the women all agog with excitement, the children dodging in and out to get a glimpse of the bound man.  And none of them said a word.  The only sound was the grinding of the heavy boots in front, and the bustle of the passage of such a crowd along so narrow a way.  There had been words and to spare up above.  This was the end of the matter and of the man in bonds, so far as the Island was concerned,—­at least that was the intention.  There was no exultation fever the prisoner, no jibes and jeers such as might have been elsewhere.  They were simply interested to see the end.

Behind them all, slowly, and as though against his will yet determined to see it out, came a tall man of middle age, like the rest half farmer, half fisherman, but of a finer—­and sadder—­countenance than any there.  When all the rest poured noisily through the tunnel and spread out along the shingle, he stood back among the capstans under the cliff and watched quietly.