“I’ll laugh De Carteret of St. Ouen’s out of his stockings over this,” answered Lempriere. “Trust me for knowing weights and measures! Look you, varlet, thy sins be forgiven thee. I care not about the fleeces, if there be no more stealing. St. Ouen’s has no head--I said no one man in Jersey could have done it--I’m heavier by three stone than any man in the island.” Thereafter there was little speaking among them, for the danger was greater as they neared the shore. The wind and the sea were against them; the tide, however, was in their favour. Others besides M. Aubert offered up prayers for the safe-landing of the rescued and rescuers. Presently an ancient fisherman broke out into a rude sailor’s chanty, and every voice, even those of the two Huguenots, took it up: “When the Four Winds, the Wrestlers, strive with the Sun, When the Sun is slain in the dark; When the stars burn out, and the night cries To the blind sea-reapers, and they rise, And the water-ways are stark-- God save us when the reapers reap! When the ships sweep in with the tide to the shore, And the little white boats return no more; When the reapers reap, Lord give Thy sailors sleep, If Thou cast us not upon the shore, To bless Thee evermore: To walk in Thy sight as heretofore Though the way of the Lord be steep! By Thy grace, Show Thy face, Lord of the land and the deep!” The song stilled at last. It died away in the roar of the surf, in the happy cries of foolish women, and the laughter of men back from a dangerous adventure. As the Seigneur’s boat was drawn up the shore, Angele threw herself into the arms of Michel de la Foret, the soldier dressed as a priest. Lempriere of Rozel stood abashed before this rich display of feeling. In his hottest youth he could not have made such passionate motions of affection. His feelings ran neither high nor broad, but neither did they run low and muddy. His nature was a straight level of sensibility--a rough stream between high banks of prejudice, topped with the foam of vanity, now brawling in season, and now going steady and strong to the sea. Angele had come to feel what he was beneath the surface. She felt how unimaginative he was, and how his humour, which was but the horse-play of vanity, helped him little to understand the world or himself. His vanity was ridiculous, his self-importance was against knowledge or wisdom; and Heaven had given him a small brain, a big and noble heart, a pedigree back to Rollo, and the absurd pride of a little lord in a little land. Angele knew all this; but realised also that he had offered her all he was able to offer to any woman. She went now and put out both hands to him. “I shall ever pray God’s blessing on the lord of Rozel,” she said, in a low voice.