My grandfather took her by the shoulders, while Spry ran for the jug
of holy water that stood by the font. As it happened, 'twas empty:
but the sight of it fetched her to, and she raised herself up with a
shiver.
"The Frenchman!" she cries out, pointing. "The Frenchman--on the
coach! O Lord, deliver us!"
For a moment, as you'll guess, my grandfather was puzzled: but he
stared where the poor lady pointed, and after a bit he began to
understand. I dare say you've seen our church, Sir, and if so, you
must have taken note of a monstrous fine fig-tree growing out of the
south wall--"the marvel of Manaccan," we used to call it. When they
restored the church the other day nobody had the heart to destroy the
tree, for all the damage it did to the building--having come there
the Lord knows how, and grown there since the Lord knows when.
So they took and patched up the wall around it, and there it thrives.
But in the times I'm telling of, it had split the wall so that from
inside you could look straight through the crack into the churchyard;
and 'twas to this crack that Mrs. Polwhele's finger pointed.
"Eh?" said my grandfather.
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