With eager fingers he
stripped himself and plunged in, diving again and again below the
surface, swimming with long, lazy strokes backwards and forwards.
Afterwards he lay down in the warm, dry grass, dressed himself
slowly, and went on his way. The wind, which had increased now
since the early morning, came thundering across the level land,
bending the tops of the few scattered trees, sending the sails of
the windmills spinning, bringing on its bosom now stronger than
ever the flavor of the sea itself, salt and stimulating.
Tavernake told himself that this was a new world into which he
was coming. He would pass into its embrace and life would become
a new thing.
Towards evening with many a thrill of reminiscence, he descended
a steep hill and walked into a queer time-forgotten village,
whose scattered red-tiled cottages were built around an arm of
the sea. Boldly enough now he entered the one inn which flaunted
its sign upon the cobbled street, and, taking a seat in the
stone-floored kitchen, ate and drank and bespoke a bed. Later
on, he strolled down to the quay and made friends with the few
fishermen who were loitering there. They answered his questions
readily, although he found it hard at first to pick up again the
dialect of which he himself had once made use. The little place
was scarcely changed. All progress, indeed, seemed to have
passed it by. There were a handful of fishermen, a boat-builder
and a fish-curer in the village.
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