For the East Lynn (which is our river) was ramping and roaring frightfully, lashing whole trunks of trees on the rocks, and rending them, and grinding them.  And into it rushed, from the opposite side, a torrent even madder; upsetting what it came to aid; shattering wave with boiling billow, and scattering wrath with fury.  It was certain death to attempt the passage:  and the little wooden footbridge had been carried away long ago.  And the men I was seeking must be, of course, on the other side of this deluge, for on my side there was not a single house.

I followed the bank of the flood to the beach, some two or three hundred yards below; and there had the luck to see Will Watcombe on the opposite side, caulking an old boat.  Though I could not make him hear a word, from the deafening roar of the torrent, I got him to understand at last that I wanted to cross over.  Upon this he fetched another man, and the two of them launched a boat; and paddling well out to sea, fetched round the mouth of the frantic river.  The other man proved to be Stickles’s chief mate; and so he went back and fetched his comrades, bringing their weapons, but leaving their horses behind.  As it happened there were but four of them; however, to have even these was a help; and I started again at full speed for my home; for the men must follow afoot, and cross our river high up on the moorland.

This took them a long way round, and the track was rather bad to find, and the sky already darkening; so that I arrived at Plover’s Barrows more than two hours before them.  But they had done a sagacious thing, which was well worth the delay; for by hoisting their flag upon the hill, they fetched the two watchmen from the Foreland, and added them to their number.

It was lucky that I came home so soon; for I found the house in a great commotion, and all the women trembling.  When I asked what the matter was, Lorna, who seemed the most self-possessed, answered that it was all her fault, for she alone had frightened them.  And this in the following manner.  She had stolen out to the garden towards dusk, to watch some favourite hyacinths just pushing up, like a baby’s teeth, and just attracting the fatal notice of a great house-snail at night-time.  Lorna at last had discovered the glutton, and was bearing him off in triumph to the tribunal of the ducks, when she descried two glittering eyes glaring at her steadfastly, from the elder-bush beyond the stream.  The elder was smoothing its wrinkled leaves, being at least two months behind time; and among them this calm cruel face appeared; and she knew it was the face of Carver Doone.

The maiden, although so used to terror (as she told me once before), lost all presence of mind hereat, and could neither shriek nor fly, but only gaze, as if bewitched.  Then Carver Doone, with his deadly smile, gloating upon her horror, lifted his long gun, and pointed full at Lorna’s heart.  In vain she strove to turn away; fright had stricken her stiff as stone.  With the inborn love of life, she tried to cover the vital part wherein the winged death must lodge—­for she knew Carver’s certain aim—­but her hands hung numbed, and heavy; in nothing but her eyes was life.