Paternosters, and lighting up the sea with awful radiance. Scarce a rock
to be seen from the hut but had some legend like this: the burning
Russian ship at the Paternosters, the fleet of boats with tall prows and
long oars drifting upon the Dirouilles and going down to the cry of the
Crusaders' Dahindahin! the Roche des Femmes at the Ecrehos, where still
you may hear the cries of women in terror of the engulfing sea.

On this particular day, if you had entered the hut, no one would have
welcomed you; but had you tired of waiting, and followed the indentations
of the coast for a mile or more by a deep bay under tall cliffs, you
would have seen a woman and a child coming quickly up the sands. Slung
upon the woman's shoulders was a small fisherman's basket. The child ran
before, eager to climb the hill and take the homeward path.

A man above was watching them. He had ridden along the cliff, had seen
the woman in her boat making for the shore, had tethered his horse in the
quarries near by, and now awaited her. He chuckled as she came on, for
he had ready a surprise for her. To make it more complete he hid himself
behind some boulders, and as she reached the top sprang out with an ugly
grinning.

The woman looked at him calmly and waited for him to speak. There was no
fear on her face, not even surprise; nothing but steady inquiry and quiet
self-possession. With an air of bluster the man said:

"Aha, my lady, I'm nearer than you thought--me!" The child drew in to
its mother's side and clasped her hand. There was no fear in the little
fellow's look, however; he had something of the same self-possession as
the woman, and his eyes were like hers, clear, unwavering, and with a
frankness that consumed you. They were wells of sincerity; open-eyed,