"You know, then?"
"Aye, lad," rejoined the fisherman in his clear baritone. "Three
red-coated cavalry were here yesterday, searching about and makin' a
fuss. Saw fit to post a threatening bill on the door of the church.
`Escaped traitors (traitors, mind) from Edinburgh. . .believed headed.
. .fifty pounds reward
. . .death to anyone aiding or abetting.' The usual stuff."
"The villagers will be on the watch for me, then?"
"Nay, lad. That bill was torn down before their horses were out of
sight. And you plainly don't know sea-folk if you have to ask." He
took a puff on his pipe, and continued without haste.
"We live with death every day of our lives, and would not last one
season if we grew afraid every time the word was spoken. That lady out
there." He moved his arm to indicate the sea. "She gives and takes
life as she pleases, with hardly a warning. God's mistress she is,
with moods and temper to match. If we'll not bow to her, then what
have we to fear from three young hoodlums, flashing their sabers as if
to wake the dead?"
"Meaning no offense," said the other, "and I'm sure you're right.
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