The incident, however, braced him to his former caution, and he went no more abroad without first carefully inspecting the surrounding waters from the ridge.
They would be certain to come that night, he felt sure, either Nance or Bernel, perhaps both.

Yes, he thought most likely they would both come.
They would, without doubt, be wondering how he had fared during the storm, and would be making provision for him.
Perhaps Nance was cooking for him at that very moment, and thinking of him as he was of her.
In the certain expectation of their coming, he decided he would not go to sleep at all that night, but would crawl down to the landing-place to welcome them.
He wondered if that mad woman Julie had given up watching them, and, if not, if they would be able to circumvent her again.

In any case, he hoped that if only one of them came it might be Nance.

He fairly ached for the sight and sound of her--and the feel of her little hand, and a warm frank kiss from the lips that knew no guile.
The sufferings of the storm became as nothing to him in this large hope and expectation of her coming.
The intervening hours dragged slowly.

It would be half-ebb soon after dark, he thought; and he crept up to the ridge and gazed anxiously over at the Race between him and Breniere, to see if it showed any unusual symptoms after the storm.
It ran furiously enough, but, he said to himself, it would slacken on the ebb, and they were so familiar with it that it would take more than that to stop them coming.
Before dark the great seas were rolling past, a little quicker than usual, he thought, but in long, smooth undulations, which slipped, unbroken and soundless, even along the black ledges of his rock.