He shifted across to the mouth of the tent and raised the flap, fastening it against the pole so that he could see out. Maloney stopped humming and began to force the breath through his teeth with a kind of faint hissing, treating us to a medley of church hymns and popular songs of the day.

Then the tent trembled as though someone had touched it.

“That’s the wind rising,” whispered the clergyman, and pulled the flap open as far as it would go. A waft of cold damp air entered and made us shiver, and with it came a sound of the sea as the first wave washed its way softly along the shores.

“It’s got round to the north,” he added, and following his voice came a long-drawn whisper that rose from the whole island as the trees sent forth a sighing response. “The fog’ll move a bit now. I can make out a lane across the sea already.”