Because somewhere
inside him a voice had said, "Enough. Enough running and hiding and
stealing. I must take myself openly to the first villager I see, and
ask for help." And while this ran counter to all the hard lessons he
had learned in the stockade---that a man must look out for himself,
trusting and needing no one else---yet a line had been crossed inside
him, from which there was no returning. He did not wish to die, but
neither could he live as some hunted and detestable beast. He climbed
down from the rock.
The twilit beach was empty and the waves had grown less. Here and
again came the sound of gulls, along with the high screech of a
sea-hawk somewhere above. He plodded on through the indifferent sand,
toward the small fishing village some two miles distant.
Upon leaving the hiding place he had formed no clear plan, and in his
bitterness told himself he did not want one. But as the cliffs that
walked with him began to diminish and pull back from the shore,
leaving the more level expanse and tiny harbor of the village, his
mind of necessity began to work again, trying to think of anyone he
might know there, who would have no love for the English, and be
willing to take him in.
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