Sir John Constantine: Memoirs of His Adventures At Home and Abroad and Particularly in the Island of Corsica: Beginning with the Year 1756Quiller-Couch, Arthur
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Sir John Constantine: Memoirs of His Adventures At Home and Abroad and Particularly in the Island of Corsica: Beginning with the Year 1756
Quiller-Couch, Arthur
Corsica (France) -- Fiction
The church stood about thirty paces from my tree, and by turning my
head to the angle of my right shoulder I looked straight into its
porch. It struck me that from the shadow within it, or from one of
the narrow windows, a marksman could make an easy target of me.
The building had been empty over-night: no one (it was reasonable to
suppose) had entered the enclosure during Billy's sentry-go; no one
for a certainty had entered it since. Nevertheless, the fancy that
eyes might be watching me from within the church began now to worry,
and within five minutes had almost worried me into leaving my post to
explore.
I repressed the impulse. I could not carry my stand of muskets with
me, and to leave it unguarded would be the starkest folly. Also I
had sworn to myself to keep watch on the gateway towards the forest,
and this resolution must obviously be broken if I explored the
church. I kept my seat, telling myself that, however the others had
vanished, they had vanished in silence, and therefore all danger from
gunshot might be ruled out of the reckoning.
I had scarcely calmed myself by these reflections when a noise at
some distance up the glade fetched my musket halfway to my shoulder.
I lowered it with a short laugh of relief as our friends the hogs
came trotting downhill to the gateway.
For the moment I was glad; on second thoughts, vexed. They explained
the noise and eased my immediate fear. They brought back--absurd as
it may sound--a sense of companionship: for although half-wild, they
showed a disposition to be sociable, and we had found that a wave of
the arm sufficed to drive them off when their advances became
embarrassing. On the other hand, they would certainly distract some
attention which I could very ill afford to spare.
But again I calmed myself, reflecting that if any danger lurked close
at hand, these friendly nuisances might give me some clue to it by
their movements. They came trotting down to the entrance, halted and
regarded me, pushing up their snouts and grunting as though uncertain
of their welcome. Apparently reassured, they charged through, as
hogs will, in a disorderly mob, rubbing their lean flanks against the
gateposts, each seeming to protest with squeals against the crush to
which he contributed.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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