Frenchman's Creek

Dona stood beside her horse, looking down upon the lake, and she saw that it was separated from the sea by a bank of high shingle, and while the waves broke upon the shore the lake itself was still and undisturbed. There was no wind, and the sky for all its darkness had the strange clarity and radiance of midsummer. Now and again a wave a little larger than its fellows would spend itself upon the shingle beach, and murmur, and sigh, and the lake, catching a tremor from the sea would bear a ripple upon its surface of glass, and shiver an instant, while the ripple washed away into the bent reeds. Now and again there were bird noises from the pool, the startled cry of a moor-hen as it paddled amongst the reeds and hid itself, furtively rustling the tall stems, and there were whispers and stealthy movements from all the unknown nameless things that come out into the silent world at night, and live for a while, and breathe, and have their moment.

Beyond the woods and the hill lay the village of Porthleven, where the fishing boats were moored against the quay, and William looked up into his master's face, and then over his shoulder again towards the hill.

"It would be wise, m'sieu," he said, "if I went now, before the day breaks, and found a boat. I will bring it round to the beach here, and we can leave as the sun rises."

"Do you think you will find a boat?" said the Frenchman.

"Yes, m'sieu," he answered, "there will be a small boat at the harbour entrance. I made enquiries, m'sieu, before I left Gweek."

"William is resourceful," said Dona. "He forgets nothing. And because of him there will be no hanging in the morning, but only a small boat putting out to sea."

The Frenchman looked at his servant, and the servant looked at Dona, as she stood beside the lake, and suddenly he went from them, over the ridge of shingle to the hill beyond, a curious little figure in his long black coat and his large three-cornered hat. He disappeared into the darkness, and they were alone. The horses grazed on the grass beside the lake, and their soft mouths made a quiet crunching sound, and from the woods opposite the tall trees rustled and whispered and were still.

There was a hollow beside the lake, of smooth white sand, and here it was they built their fire, and presently a tongue of flame leapt upwards into the air, and the dry sticks crackled and broke.

He knelt close to the fire, the flame lighting his face and his throat and his hands, and "Do you remember," said Dona, "that once you told me you would cook chicken for me on a spit?"

"Yes," he answered, "but tonight I have no chicken, and I have no spit, and my cabin-boy must be content with burnt bread instead."

He frowned, concentrating upon his task, and because the heat of the fire was great he shook his head, and wiped his forehead with the sleeve of his shirt, and she knew that this was a picture of him that could never be lost, the fire, the lake, the dark sky studded with stars, and the sea breaking upon the shingle behind them.

"And so," he said later, as they ate their supper, with the fire smaller than before and the bitter smell of wood smoke lingering in the air, "you fought a man, my Dona, and he died, on the floor of Navron House."

She stared across at him, but he was not looking at her; he was crunching the bread between his teeth. "How did you know?" she asked.

"Because I was accused of his murder," he answered, "and when I was accused I remembered the companion of Hampton Court, and the face of a man who looked on me with hatred as I robbed him of his rings, and I knew then what happened, Dona, when I left you that night."

She clasped her hands round her knees, and looked out upon the lake. "When we went fishing, you and I," she said, "I could not take the hook out of the fish, do you remember? But it was different, what I did that night. At first I was afraid, and then I was angry, and when I was angry I took the shield down from the wall, and afterwards - he died."

"What made you angry?" he asked.

She thought a moment, trying to remember, and then, "It was James," she said, "it was James who woke and cried."

He said nothing, and glancing across at him she saw that he had finished his supper, and was sitting now as she did, with his hands around his knees, and he was staring at the lake.

"Ah," he said, "so it was James who woke and cried, and you and I, Dona, we meet at the Loe pool instead of Coverack, and your answer is the same as mine."

He threw a pebble into the lake, and a ripple formed and spread across the surface of the water, and vanished as though it had never been, and then he lay on his back on the strip of sand, and put out his hand to her, and she went and lay beside him.

"I think," he said, "that Lady St. Columb will never more royster in the streets of London, for she has had her measure of adventure."