As they neared the land, the calm grew. Save for the lap of waters at the
bow, all was hushed in the gracious evening.
Kit, steering, peered under the swaying boom at the shore.
The Parson, Polly in hand, stood in the bows, viking-like.
The lugger was about to beach at the very spot where they had started
twelve hours since.
The tide was much as then; but otherwise what a change!
Then in the cold sunshine men had been busy with each other's lives; now
all was sunset peace and waters kissing the shore.
But for one grim reminder of what had been, they might have been
returning from a pleasure trip.
The Grenadier Kit had stabbed lay on the slope of the shingle, ghastly to
greet them. Just out of reach of the tide he sprawled as he had fallen.
No man had touched him. He lay then as now spread-eagled on his face,
with wide gaitered legs, and hands flung before him. His chin dug into
the shingle; and his shako had fallen askew over staring eyes. It was
almost as though he was making faces at them.
Kit saw it and sickened.
Beside the dead man there was none to greet them.
A wood-pigeon crooned itself to sleep among the sycamores on the knoll;
the sea fell with a lazy swish upon the shore; behind the orange-lichened
roof of the cottage, the Downs loomed black in the glow of sunset The
rest was silence and terror.
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