There was nothing for it but to go and see.
He stole forward with noisy heart.
The cottage crouched; the sycamores behind it rustled; and the wind that stirred the sycamores brought to him the sound of a voice.
He stopped, fingering his dirk.
Friend or enemy?
The voice was that of a man, deeply melodious without being exactly musical, and came from beyond the cottage somewhere by the clump of sycamores behind.
It was humming a tune, and a tune the boy knew well. Holding his breath, and listening with his heart, the boy could distinguish the words--
_Jesu, Lover of my Soul_.
CHAPTER x.x.xI
THE MAN WITH THE SWORD
I
Those familiar words, so unexpected in that strange place, smote the boy"s heart.
A thousand memories surged in on him.
His lips trembled. A very little, and he would have fallen on his knees.
It was as though an Angel had come to him walking through the Valley of the Shadow, to tell him all was well, and to go forward.
And forward he went with thankful heart.
The sea of turf ran right up to the wall, and broke against it. The windows, seen close, were less windows than loop-holes, barred across.
On the sill of one was a pot of musk, newly watered, and very fragrant. Within upon the wall shimmered a ship"s cutla.s.s, and a brace of pistols.
The boy peered in.
A kitchen-parlour, raftered and paved with stone, formed the ground- floor. At one end was a huge fire-place; in the opposite corner a bed, piled high with clothes. A ladder led to a trap-door in the low ceiling. The sun flooded into the room through the one window in the other wall. The door on that side was half open; and behind it sat a man.
II
He was all in black, and very neat: an Englishman, a gentleman, and a parson, Kit would have sworn.
His back was turned. The boy could see nothing but a black coat, a pair of solid shoulders, and a curly head.
This was not the hymn-singer to be sure. He was otherwise engaged.
There was something across his knees, and he was tending to it, and talking as he worked.
From his actions and his words, Kit would have sworn that he was bathing a child. For the man was talking as women talk to babies, and some men to the women they love--that little talk, half tender, half mocking, such nonsense, and so sweet.
Then something flashed and sparkled against the dark of the door; and Kit saw it was no babe that lay across the man"s knees, but a naked blade.
He was furbishing it with a chamois leather, and caressing it with words.
Now he lifted the blade on flat hands, and kissed the point reverently.
Then he leaned forward, and peered round the half open door with extraordinary stealth.
Comic as the action was, there was yet something terrible about it.
Kit choked with laughter and fear.
The man was half child playing peep-bo! and half spider waiting for a fly.
That vision of the Eternal Child, which he had surprised in the eyes of old Ding-dong sailing into action, was manifest in this man too.
Were men only children?--Yes, surely!--the good ones, at least. Only sinners grew old. Christian never ages.
The man"s head turned a trifle. There was a smile flickering about his lips; and in the smile was something of the ogre, and something of the boy.
It was clear that he meant to kill; equally clear that he took joy in his purpose.
He sat down again; and as he did so held up a finger, hushing himself.
He was playing a game, unaware that he was being watched, and enjoying it intensely.
Behind the door he sat now, blade in hand, spider-still.
Plainly he was waiting for somebody.
But for whom?--and what would happen when that somebody came?
The door opened another inch or two, and through it, Kit saw the privateer, black on the white water.
In a flash he understood.
The man was waiting for the French.
III