‘The wave! the wave! it is coming—­turn! turn and run—­or we are lost!’

They did turn, and saw far out to sea a large wave rolling toward the shore.  The girl passed them and led the way; the two friends strained every nerve to keep pace with her, for as they neared the rock, the wave still rolled towards them; the sand became gradually covered, and for the last ten steps they were up to their knees in water—­but they were on the rock.

‘Quick! quick!’ said the girl; ’there is the passage to the Cross at the top; but if the second wave comes we shall be too late.’

She scrambled on for a hundred yards till she came to a crack in the rock, six or seven feet wide, along which the water was rushing like a mill-sluice.  With some difficulty they reached the upper rocks, carrying the fisher-girl in their arms, and wading above their knees in water.  Here they rest a moment—­when a great wave rolls in, and the water runs along the little platform where they are sitting; they all rise, and mounting the rocky points (which the little Granvillaise assures them are never quite covered with water), cluster together for support.  In a few moments the suspense is over, the girl points to the shore, where they can hear the distant sound of a cheer, and see people waving their handkerchiefs.

‘They think the tide has turned,’ says the girl, ’and they are shouting to cheer us.’

She was right, the tide had turned.  Another wave came and wetted their feet, but when it had passed the water had fallen, and in five minutes the platform was again dry!

The fisherwomen of Granville are famed for their beauty, industry, and courage; we, certainly, have not seen such eyes, excepting at Cadiz, and never have we seen so many active hard-working old women.  The women seem to do everything here—­the ‘boatmen’ are women, and the fishermen young girls.

We may well admire some of these handsome Granvillaises, living their free life by the sea, earning less in the day, generally, than our Staffordshire pit girls, but living much more enviable lives.  Here they are by hundreds, scattered over the beach in the early morning, and afterwards crowding into the market-place; driving hard bargains for the produce of their sea-farms, and—­with rather shrill and unpronounceable ejaculations and many most winning smiles—­handing over their shining wares.  It is all for the Paris market they will tell you, and they may also tell you (if you win their confidence) that they, too, are one day for Paris.

Let us leave the old women to do the best bargaining, and picture to the reader a bright figure that we once saw upon this shining shore, a Norman maiden, about eighteen years of age, without shoes or stockings; a picture of health and beauty bronzed by the sun.[25] This young creature who had spent her life by the sea and amongst her own people, was literally overflowing with happiness, she could not contain the half of it, she imparted it to everyone about her (unconsciously, and that was its sweetness); she could not strictly be called handsome, and she might be considered very ignorant; but she bloomed with freshness, she knew neither ill health nor ennui, and happiness was a part of her nature.