irst landing.

Now it was in the Terre des Voizins that Jean had resolved to seek his
beloved, and his resolution was unalterable. He knew the danger; he
wished to avoid death if possible; he meant to employ to the full the
resources at his command; foolhardy as his enterprise seemed it was long
and carefully planned. He knew that in the summer evenings it was the
custom of the Voizin women to visit the sunny shores of the bay: this he
had seen from Lihou; could he then succeed in landing unperceived, and
in concealing himself in one of the many clefts of the rocks, he felt
sure that if the well-known form were there he would descry it; what
would follow afterwards was a question which had taken many fantastic
shapes in his imagination, none of which had assumed a definite form.

Towards the close of July the conditions were favourable for his
attempt. In the night a strong tide would be running into the bay; the
wind was south-westerly, the moon set early. He prepared to start. He
had selected a small and light boat, which would travel fast under his
powerful strokes, and might be so handled as not to attract attention;
in it he had stored provisions which would last for a few days and a
small cask of fresh water. Towards evening he shaped his course for
Lihou.

He had seen but little of the monk since the day of the feast, but he
was yearning to see him now. His love for the man, his reverence for the
truths he taught, his thought of his own future if he lost his life in
his rash expedition, all urged him to seek a parting interview.

The brothers received him affectionately and bade him join their frugal
meal. The monks were five in number: they had been six, but one had
recently been drowned while returning from a pious mission to Herm. Jean
knew them all; they were honest, God-fearing men, trustful and truthful.
If their reasoning powers were not great, their faith was unswerving.
Their life was a prolonged asceticism, and they had fair reason to
expect that martyrdom would be their earthly crown.

The only exceptional feature of the repast was the appearance of one who
had never yet been seated there in Jean's presence; this guest was the
hermit who dwelt on the extreme point, against which the Atlantic waves
dashed in their fiercest fury. The recluse did not seem to cultivate the
duty of abstemiousness, but he maintained silence. Jean could not
forbear furtively scanning his appearance, which was indeed remar