Читать книгу Wild Life at the Land's End - John Coulson Tregarthen - Страница 18

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The sun had gone down over the cairn and night had drawn its curtain across the lingering afterglow, when the Earthstopper, with a lantern in each hand and the hunting-horn in his pocket, set out for his ambush in the bottoms.

He did not pass through the village, but reached the park by an unfrequented path, and was soon threading his way amongst the trees in front of the Castle. The stars were out, and the moon, now at its full, was climbing the cloudless vault and silvering the countryside with its rays.

“Grand night, couldn’t be better: wonder ef he’s on hes way up,” said Andrew to himself as he reached the furze-bush on the bank of the stream, which he had chosen as a hiding-place. After concealing the lanterns in a bed of nettles and looking round to see that he was not observed, he forced his way into the prickly bush and lay down at full length. He was not quite hidden, though he thought he was, as his bright hob-nailed soles projected a little, and nearly touched the edge of a footbridge leading to a farmhouse whose gable showed against the sky. To have a clear view of the ground, with his clasp knife he cut two peepholes in the furze, through which he could see the rough track on his left and a smooth pool on his right. An ivy-clad ash cast a deep shadow on the stream and track, but bright belts of lighted ground lay on each side of it, and the pool shone like quicksilver. Seldom does the footfall of wayfarer disturb the silence of the spot at night. About ten o’clock, however, a country housewife, returning late from market, trudges past; thoughts of cream neglected during her absence, or of geese not securely housed from the fox, hurrying her along despite the heavy basket she carried. Luckily for her, Andrew has got over a fit of sneezing, and she passes the bush unconscious of his presence. When her footsteps die away, night and its shy denizens claim the earth for their own. A rabbit runs along the space between the wheel-ruts and pauses for a moment on the further bright space. To the Earthstopper its ears are in a line with a big stone that holds the gate leading into a rough meadow bordering the stream. The rabbit has scarcely passed out of sight before a stoat follows, like a murderer on the trail of his victim, and is lost to view in the shadow of a hedgerow. Nothing escapes the vigilant eyes of the Earthstopper behind the furze screen, and his ears are strained to catch any tell-tale sound along the course of the stream. As yet there is no sign of the otter, and every minute that goes by lessens the chance of its appearing, for it is nearly midnight now and dawn is but a few hours off. Wearying a little from the strain of his vigil and his cramped quarters the old man begins to fear that the poacher may not be coming, and again it makes him as “vexed as fire” to remember the iris and the huge print on the silt.

All at once he becomes alert. Nothing has darkened the lighted space but the tiny shadow of a circling bat: not a ripple has broken the silvery surface of the pool. What can it be that has wrought this sudden change?

The cry of a moorhen, startled from her nest among the sags some two furlongs down stream; and if we may judge from his state of excitement, the Earthstopper must feel pretty confident that the otter is the cause.