Jack Higgins – Wrath of the Lion 1964 The wrath of the lion is the wisdom of God. WILLIAM BLAKE

He wasted five minutes in going down to the jetty in the forlorn hope that Guymon’s launch might be seaworthy. It was almost completely dark when he breasted the hill and trotted towards the Grants” house.

He went in through the kitchen and quiet enveloped him, that strange, secret stillness a house wraps about itself when no one is there, and an overwhelming loneliness surged through him.

He spoke aloud, his voice hoarse and broken: “Anne?”

But only the house listened to him and the quiet ones. He stumbled into the sitting-room, opened the cabinet and poured himself a brandy. He stood there, sipping it quietly, remembering her here by the fireside in the soft lamplight a thousand years ago.

The darkness seemed to move in on him with a strange whispering, and he closed his eyes tightly, fighting the panic, the despair which rose inside him. The moment passed. He put down the glass and went out through the French windows.

The moon was clear and very bright, stars strung away to the horizon. When he topped the hill on the western side of the island St. Pierre and the castle were etched out of black cardboard, breathtakingly beautiful like something from a child’s fairy-tale.

Beneath him the tide was already on the turn, white water breaking across the great reef, rocks thrusting their heads into the moonlight. Minute by minute the water would con-tinue to drop until for one brief hour a jagged causeway linked the two islands. One hour only and then the tide would come roaring in. But there was no point in thinking about that. Such had been his haste since landing from the dinghy that he had not even had time to rid himself of his lifejacket. He touched it mechanically, moved along the cliffs till he came to a sloping ravine that slanted to the beach below, and started down.

Marcel unbolted the heavy door and de Beaumont moved inside. There was no window, but the room was brightly illuminated by a naked bulb which hung from the centre of the low ceiling. Guyon and Hamish Grant sat on a couple of old packing cases, talking in low tones.

They came to their feet, the old man leaning on his walk-ing stick. Guyon was very pale, dark circles under his eyes, and the gash on his forehead was red and angry.

“It seems I must congratulate you, Captain Guyon,” de Beaumont said calmly.

Guyon shook his head. “No need. You were doomed from the beginning. A pity you didn’t realise that a few lives ago.”

“I wouldn’t be too sure. The game isn’t over yet.”

“It will be the moment Colonel Mallory makes land.”

“And what if he doesn’t? From what I hear,Fleur de Lys was in a sinking condition when last seen.”

“You’re forgetting Granville and his wife. They must have contacted the authorities now. The sands are running out, de Beaumont. You were wrong from the start, always have been. We don’t need you and your bully-boys to tell us how to govern France.”

Marcel took a step forward and de Beaumont pushed him back. “Let him go on.”

“A country’s greatness lies in the hearts of her people, not in the size of her possessions, and France is people. In one way or another, blood and suffering is all they’ve been given since 1939 and they’ve had enough. But not you, Colonel. You couldn’t stop if you wanted to.”

“Anything I have done I have done to the greater glory of France,” de Beaumont said.

“Or the greater glory of Philippe de Beaumont? Which is it? Can you tell the difference? Have you ever been able to?”

De Beaumont’s face seemed to sag, and for the first time since Guyon had known him he looked like an old man. He turned and walked out. Marcel hesitated and then followed him. The door closed and the bolts rasped into place.

“Quite a speech,” Hamish Grant said out of the long silence which followed.

“Accomplishing precisely nothing,” Guyon said wearily, and sat down, his head in his hands.

“Worth hearing, though.” The old man patted him gently on the shoulder, resumed his seat and they waited.

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