He never knew how the climber reached the top. But when the mist cleared
away from his eyes, Carterette was bending over him, putting rum to his
lips.

"Carterette-garcon Carterette!" he murmured, amazed. Then as the truth
burst upon him he shook his head in a troubled sort of way.

"What a cat I was!" said Carterette. "What a wild cat I was to make you
haul me up! It was bad for me with the rope round me, it must have been
awful for you, my poor esmanus--poor scarecrow Ranulph."

Scarecrow indeed he looked. His clothes were nearly gone, his hair was
tossed and matted, his eyes bloodshot, his big hands like pieces of raw
meat, his feet covered with blood.

"My poor scarecrow!" she repeated, and she tenderly wiped the blood from
his face where his hands had touched it. Meanwhile bugle-calls and cries
of command came up to them, and in the first light of morning they could
see French officers and sailors, Mattingley, Alixandre, and others,
hurrying to and fro.

When day came clear and bright, it was known that Carterette as well as
Ranulph had vanished. Mattingley shook his head stoically, but
Richambeau on the Victoire was as keen to hunt down one Jersey-Englishman
as he had ever been to attack an English fleet. More so, perhaps.

Meanwhile the birds kept up a wild turmoil and shrieking. Never before
had any one heard them so clamorous. More than once Mattingley had
looked at Perch Rock curiously, but whenever the thought of it as a
refuge came to him, he put it away. No, it was impossible.