In the year 165-, when Cromwell had gained ascendancy in England and over the greater portion of the Channel Islands, there lived in Guernsey, at the Bay of Moulin Huet, a miller of the name of Pierre Moullin. Unlike his class generally, he was a very morose man, hard in his dealings with the poor around him, and exceedingly unsympathizing in all his domestic relations, as will appear as our story unwinds itself. Before speaking of the family surroundings of Pierre Moullin we will glance at the circumstance which forms the basis of the present tale. Visitors to the Bay of Moulin Huet, as well as to other parts of this and the surrounding Islands, may have observed a crimson appearance on the rocks, suggesting very sanguinary ideas, but for which, geologists doubtless, would be able to account in a very satisfactory manner. Looking at a portion of the original gully through which the water runs after passing through the mill wheel, we find that this crimson appearance is very visible, and as our purpose is not to raise scientific enquiries, we will take one of the fanciful reasons (of which there are two or three in existence), for this coloring on by the hand of Nature, which has so abundantly bedecked Guernsey in general, and Moulin Huet in particular. Dipping into the Fairy lore of that part of the island, we find that many believe that some mischievous Fairies who annoyed the miller much with their nightly pranks were ground to pieces by the mill wheel becoming unfastened, and that their blood remains there to this day, as a warning to all others among the “good people” who might wish to vent their superfluous mischief in a like manner.

So much for the Fairy lore in the Moulin Huet Chronicles; but we must turn our attention elsewhere to find out whose blood it was that thus dyed the watercourse of the Moulin Huet Mill.

At the time of which we are speaking, (the opening of the year 165-) Pierre Moullin and his two children, a son and a daughter, lived in a house adjoining the mill, in fact, the same roof covered both mill and house, which were built facing the sea. The stream of water which turned the wheel was far more powerful than the present, as the old marks (still partially visible) denote. Pierre Moullin, like many of his fellow-islanders, was a strong adherent of Cromwell; his son Hirzel was also, though perhaps he did not go quite as far as his father in his hatred of the Royalist party. He had nevertheless acquaintances among the Royalist soldiers who were quartered in the strong fortress at Jerbourg. One in particular he had made a great friend of Charlie Heyward. Old Pierre often used to say he knew harm would come of this friendship, and felt his words were being proved true when he discovered that an attachment was springing up between his daughter Marguerite and the young soldier. On becoming aware of this his rage was unbounded, and he repeatedly said he would be the death of Charlie if he could manage it. He tried in every way to bring his son to his way of thinking, but though Hirzel did not much like the idea of his sister marrying a Royalist soldier, and besides which another friend and fellow-countryman of his Jacques Gaultier, was also much attached to the fair Marguerite, and had long persecuted her with his unwelcome attentions, still Hirzel would have done anything rather than have injured his friend Charlie, whom he liked well, though he did not like his principles. In Jacques Gaultier the old miller saw a ready tool towards gaining his wicked end of destroying Charlie. The latter did not think Pierre’s hatred reached the extent it did, at the same time he was still aware there was no chance of his ever gaining the old man’s consent to his marrying Marguerite.

One night Pierre sent his son to bring Jacques Gaultier saying, he wished to speak to him about taking some flour into the town next day. Jacques was only too delighted to get any excuse for going to the mill, and immediately said he would accompany Hirzel if he “would wait until he got something which he had been making for Marguerite.”

“All right, Jacques, my boy, but look sharp, as the old man seems impatient to-night.”

“Thy tone and way of speaking savour far more of the style of that base soldiery which our island is burdened with, than the tone of thy father’s son should be,” replied Jacques.

“Very well,” said Hirzel, “I will promise to mend my ways, but do be quick, as I promised to walk with my sister at seven, and now it is nigh on half-past; and she says she needs my counsel much on a matter.”

“Ah! thou art an impatient lad, but it would be worse with me were I in thy case; long till she’d ask me to walk with her, not I warrant were I dying for a look at her sweet face.”

“Don’t be down-hearted, Jacques, how know’st thou but that my sister may change her mind and look kindly on thee yet; wait till the Redcoats have gone down to the Castle, and then perhaps thy fishers’ garb may find favour in her sight, but what hast thou got there? Some woman’s trifles, which thou seem’st to understand better than I have yet learned.”

“I made these sore against my will, for I would rather see thy sister reading some edifying book than passing her time on such vanities as these are used for, they are bobbins, lad.”

“Ha, Ha,” laughed Hirzel, “were I to go into the market to-morrow and say that stern Jacques Gaultier spent his hours carving out lace bobbins, who would believe me?”

“Don’t laugh at me, Hirzel, perhaps one of these fine days thou wilt do something more foolish: when thy nineteen summers shall have ripened like mine to thirty thou wilt have different thoughts.”

“Time enough to speak when it comes. Now I love my boat better than anything else! But how we are wasting this fine evening. My Father will think we are lost or gone to be soldiers, eh Jacques? Come along, and we will see what Marguerite thinks of those little sticks of thine.”