The vale of the stream afforded shelter
to a very decent company of trees, which could not have put up with the
tyranny of the west wind upon the bare brow of the coast. Most of these
trees stood back a little from the margin of high tide, reluctant to see
themselves in the water, for fear of the fate of Narcissus. But where
that clandestine boat had glided into gloom and greyness, a fosse of
Nature's digging, deeply lined with wood and thicket, offered snug
harbourage to craft and fraud.
Scudamore had taken care to learn the ups and downs of the riverside ere
this, and knew them now as well as a native, for he had paid many visits
to the wounded ox, whom he could not lead home quite as soon as he had
hoped, and he had found a firm place of the little river, easy to cross
when the tide was out. With the help of this knowledge he made his way
to the creek, without much risk of being observed, and then, as he came
to the crest of the thicket, he lay down and watched the interlopers.
There was the boat, now imbedded in the mud, for the little creek was
nearly dry by this time. Her crew had all landed, and kindled a fire,
over which hung a kettle full of something good, which they seemed to
regard with tender interest; while upon a grassy slope some few yards to
the right a trooper's horse was tethered. Carne was not with them, but
had crossed the creek, as the marks of his boots in the mud declared;
and creeping some little way along the thicket, Scudamore descried
him walking to and fro impatiently in a little hollow place, where the
sailors could not see him.
Pages:
538
539
540
541
542
543
544
545
546
547
548
549
550
551
552
553
554
555
556
557
558
559
560
561
562