see also the row of great capstans at the foot of the cliff by which the
boats are hauled as far out of reach of the waves as possible, though
sometimes not far enough. Through the other end of the tunnel you look into
the Creux Road, which leads straight up to the life and centre of the
Island.

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 Sénéchal, and I can imagine how
tight and grim his face would be set to a job which he did not like. For,