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Updated: May 3, 2025
Gard his lantern in his left hand, and the Sénéchal's father's "dunderbush" in his right his eyes pinching spooks out of every inch of the black wall about him, and every string at its tightest had reached the crumbly bit of path near the Little Sark side, when, like a clap of thunder out of a blue sky, the black silence of the cutting vomited uproar the wild clang and beat of what sounded, in that hollow space, like the trampling of a thousand dancing hoofs shrill neighings and whinnyings and screamings, all blended into an indescribable and blood-curdling clamour that gashed the night like an outrage.
The Sénéchal had a weapon, part pistol and the rest blunderbuss, which had belonged to his father, who had always referred to it affectionately as his "dunderbush." It had seen strange doings in its time, but had been so long retired from the active list, that he undertook to load and fire it himself before he said any more about it.
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