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Updated: June 16, 2025
My grandfather was reading in one of his big books, my mother was at her knitting, and Krok was busy over a fishing-net. "Ah, you two!" said my mother. "What mischief are you plotting now? It is like old times to see you with your heads together. But, ma fé, you seem to have changed places. What trouble have you been getting into, George?" "Aw then, Rachel! It is out of trouble I am getting.
They made up my little world, and Carette was the sunlight, and occasionally the lightning, and the moonlight was my mother, and the bright stars were Jeanne Falla and George Hamon, while my grandfather was a benevolent power, always kind but rather far above me, and Krok was a mystery man, dearly loved, but held in something of awe by reason of his strange affliction.
And at the time I cannot say that this was much to my liking, but later, when I came to understand better what I read, no urging was needed, for they were our only books, except Foxe's Martyrs, in which I never found any very great enjoyment, though Krok revelled in it.
Her own abode, built by her father, hung upon that rocky crag called Vyšehrad, and was probably by no means roomy; Krok, her father, had no doubt found it a convenient spot, being somewhat difficult of access in those days to armed visitors, who were likely to prove a disturbing element.
Some comfort I found in thought of Aunt Jeanne, in whose wisdom I had much faith; and in George Hamon, who knew my hopes and hated Torode; and in my mother and my grandfather and Krok, who would render my love every help she might ask, but were not so much in the way of it as the others.
My wits were always busy with anything and everything rather than their proper business, but my mother was patience itself and drilled things into me till perforce I had to learn them, and, either through this constant repetition, or from a friendly feeling for myself in trouble, Krok began to take an intelligent interest in my lessons.
And here we found what Krok had shown us in the Gouliots as their chiefest beauties, the roof and walls were studded with anemones of every size and colour, green and crimson, and brown and pink, and lavender and white and orange; so completely was the rock clothed with them that it was not rock we saw, but masses and sheets and banks of the lovely clinging things, all closed up within themselves till the water should return, and shining like polished gems in the ghostly green light.
Phil, my boy, but I'm glad to see you safe and sound. You've been on my mind since ever you left. Who are Why Krok and Henri Tourtel? Nom d'Gyu! Where do you come from?" "From Herm last. We came across after those black devils. Old Carré said they would take a bite at you as they passed.
The tide was very far out, and the black cave, in which we had hitherto seen only sulky waves tumbling unhappily, had become a wonder equal to those Krok used to open to us in the Gouliots.
"Was it you, Krok?" and I shook both his hands heartily, while he held the flask between his knees. "And my grandfather?" I asked. "Is he hurt?" And Krok nodded and then shook his head. "Hurt, but not badly?" and he nodded quickly. "And these are Guernsey men?" He nodded again, and one of them came up and asked, "Feeling better? You had a tough job here all alone.
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