CHAPTER XVI
It was obvious to Captain Twinely that Neal Ward's instinct would beto make for Dunseveric. He spread the men under his command, and themembers of a couple of corps similar to his own, in bands of fiveor six, across a broad belt of country. He arranged what he calleda "drive," and pushed slowly northward, searching every possiblehiding-place as he went. It seemed to him totally impossible thatNeal could escape. Sooner or later he was sure to come on him, andthen--Captain Twinely chuckled grimly at the thought that he would leaveno chance of a fourth escape.
This excellently-planned search resulted in the discovery of CaptainTwinely's clothes, damp and somewhat muddy, in a ditch about a mile outof the town. It did not end in the capture of the fugitive, becauseit was founded on a miscalculation. Neal did not make straight forDunseveric. When he got out of the town and changed his clothes he wentto Donegore Hill. M'Cracken and Hope were there with the remains oftheir army, and Neal was most anxious to join them. The murder of PegMacIlrea had made him so furiously angry that he cared nothing about hisown safety. His escape from Antrim was a matter of satisfaction mainlybecause it seemed to afford him another opportunity for fighting. Heneither attempted to weigh the chances of success nor considered theuselessness of continuing the struggle. He wanted vengeance taken on menwhom he hated, and he wanted to have some share himself in taking it.
He found the roads round Donegore Hill guarded by sentries. The campon the top of the old rath had all the appearance of being held bydisciplined troops. There was little sign of the disorganisation andpanic which often follow defeat. The men were calm, self-possessed, andreasonable, but they were hopeless. Neal realised that this army, atleast, would do no more serious fighting. The men were anxious to maketerms for themselves and for their leaders. They were perfectly wellaware that they were beaten, and could not expect to make any headagainst their enemies.
Neal found James Hope, and was warmly greeted by him.
"When I discovered that we'd left you behind," said Hope, "I made upmy mind that you must have been shot down along with your uncle and thefine fellows who made a stand with him. Ah, Neal, we've lost many--youruncle, Felix Marier, poor Moylin, and many another. One killed here,another there, but all of them in doing their duty. But we mustn't talkof these things, lad. Tell me, what brings you here?"
"Need you ask?" said Neal. "I am come to fight it out to the last."
"Take my advice and slip off home. There's no good to be done bystopping with us. Things are desperate. Most of our people are goinghome to-day. M'Cracken and a handful--not more than a hundred--are goingto Slievemis in the hope of being able to join Monro in County Down, orperhaps to get through to the Wexford men."
"I will go with you."
"No, no, lad, you've done enough. You've done a man's part. Go homenow."
"What are you going to do?"
"I? Oh, I'm only a poor weaver. It doesn't matter what I do. I'm goingon with M'Cracken."
"So am I. Listen to me, James Hope, till I tell you what is in mymind--till I tell you what has happened to me since yesterday."
They sat on the grassy slope of the old rath. The wide plain stretchedbefore them--green, well wooded, beautiful. There lay Adair'splantations, the Six Mile Water winding like a serpent among the fields,the woods of Castle Upton, and the young trees on Lyle Hill, with thedistant water of Lough Neagh glistening in the sunlight. Nearer at handthatched farmhouses smoked, signs that the yeomen were enjoying thefruits of victory. Hope pointed to Farranshane, where William Orr'shouse was burning--a witness to a malignity so bitter that it wreakedthe vengeance from which the dead man was safe on his widow and hisorphans.
Neal told his story, and spoke of the passionate desire for revengewhich burned in him. Hope listened patiently to every word. Then hespoke.
"If I were to tell you now, Neal, as I told you once before, thatvengeance belongeth only unto the Lord, you would turn away and listento me no more. Therefore, I shall not speak to you in that way at all,or appeal to those higher feelings which the great God has plantedin the breasts of even the humblest of His servants. I will, instead,appeal to that which is lower and smaller than the religion of Christ,and which yet may be in its way a noble thing. I will speak to you as toa man of honour. I am not fond of the title of gentleman, but I think Iknow what is meant by honour. Sometimes it is no more than a fantasticimage bred of prejudice and pride; but sometimes it is high and holy,next to God. I think, Neal, that you would like to reckon yourself a manof honour."
Already James Hope's words were producing an effect on Neal's mind. Theextreme bitterness of his passion was dying away from him.
"You are right," he said, "I wish to act always as a man of honour, butmy honour is engaged----"
"That is not what you said before. Before, you spoke of revenge and notof honour. But let that pass. I will try to show you, as a truly nobleman would, as your friend, Lord Dunseveric, would if he were here toadvise you, how your honour really binds you. You were rescued fromyour imprisonment last night and from death this morning by your friend,Maurice St. Clair, and he bid you go home. He set you free in order thatyou might go home. I think he would not have done what he did unless hehad believed that you would go home. You are in honour bound to him. Youare in reality still a prisoner--a prisoner released on parole, althoughno formal promise was required of you. Do you understand what I mean?"
"Yes, I understand; but you are advising me to do a cowardly thing--todesert you, whom I reckon my friend, in the time of your extremity."
"Maurice St. Clair was your friend before I was, Neal. You are bound tohim by earlier ties. Besides, he has given you your life."
"But he is in no danger."
"I am not sure of that. If it is discovered that he let you go lastnight he will surely suffer for it. They have hanged men for less, andimprisoned or exiled others."
"Oh," said Neal, "I could find it in my heart to wish they would hangMaurice. Hope, you know many men and many things, but you don't knowLord Dunseveric. Why, man, if they hanged Maurice the old lord wouldhang them--he would hang them in batches of a score at a time. If anyescaped him he would wait for them till the resurrection morning. Hewould meet them as they stepped out of their graves and hang them then.He would hang them if there wasn't another tree in the whole universe toput the rope round except the tree of life which stands by the river inthe New Jerusalem."
He laughed exultingly. Hope looked at him with pitying tenderness. Heunderstood the hysterical passion which had dragged such words from him.
"I am glad," he said, "that your friend is in no great danger, but thatdoes not alter the truth of what I say. You are his prisoner, releasedon your parole, and you must present yourself to him when he calls foryou at Dunseveric. Besides, Neal, you owe a duty to your father and tothose at home who love you. For their sakes you must not throw your lifeaway."
The anger died out of Neal's heart. This last appeal left him with nofeeling but tenderness. He thought of his father, a lone man, waitingfor news of him, of Donald, of the battle, and the cause. He thought ofUna St. Clair and the ever-new marvel of the love that she had confessedto him. Still he hesitated. Brought up in the stern faith of thePuritans, he believed that because a thing offered a prospect of greatdelight it must somehow be wrong. The longing to see Una again cameon him, sweeping over all other thought and emotion as the flowingspring-tide in late September sweeps over the broad sands of thenorthern coast. To see her, to hear her, to touch her, perhaps to kissher again, was the one thing supremely desirable in life. Therefore, hefelt instinctively that it must be a tempter's voice which showed himthe way to the fulfilment of such desire.
"Are you sure," he asked, "that you are not, out of love for me,advising me to do wrong?"
"I am sure," said Hope.
Afterwards they talked of how Neal might best accomplish his journey toDunseveric. It was clear to Hope, as it had been to Maurice St. Clair,that the main roads must be avoided, and that all travelling must bed
one by night; but it was not very easy to go through an unknown countryby night, and until Neal got as far as Ballymoney he could not be sureof being able to find his way.
"I might manage it," he said, "if I could keep to the main road. I havetravelled it once and I think I should not miss it even at night, buthow am I to get along lanes and across fields which I have never seenwithout losing myself?"
"Ah," said Hope, "that is a difficulty, and yet there is a way out ofit. Phelim, the blind piper, is with us here. God knows how he got safefrom the battle yesterday, and found his way to us. He will be no use tous any more, only a hindrance. We shall not march to battle again withour pipes playing and our colours flying. I think I shall be able topersuade him to act as your guide. The blind leading the ignorant, eh,Neal? But Phelim knows every lane and path in the country. How he doesI don't know. Perhaps some new sense is developed in the blind.Anyway, night and day are alike to him. If he takes you as far as theneighbourhood of Ballymoney you'll be able to find the rest of the wayafterwards yourself."
That night, while M'Cracken marched the remnant of his army toSlievemis, Neal and blind Phelim set off on their journey north. Theytravelled safely in the rear of the yeomen who were searching thecountry side. Neal lay hid all one day in a little wood whilePhelim, who seemed to want little rest and no sleep, wandered in theneighbourhood and brought back tidings of the doings of the yeomen whohad passed. Before daybreak the next morning Neal left his guide behindhim and made his way to the sandhills near Port Ballin-trae. He lay in ahollow near the mouth of the river Bush. He understood from what Phelimhad told him that Captain Twinely and his men had pushed northwards inpursuit of him, and that he had followed in their tracks. He realisedthat there must be a large force gathered in Bushmills and Ballintoy,and that the whole country would be scoured to find him. Therefore,though he was within a few miles of his home, he dare not stir in thedaytime. He lay in his sandy hollow through the long hot day, with thesound of the sea in his ears. He slept for an hour or two now and then.Once he crept among the dunes to a place where a little stream trickleddown, in order to get a drink, but he did not venture to stay besidethe stream. For some time he amused himself by plaiting the spiked grassinto stiff green rods, and then, from a razor shell which he found inhis hollow, he fashioned pike heads for the ends of the rods. Afterwardshe picked all the yellow crow-toes within reach, and the broad mauveflowers of the wild convolvulus. He set them out in gay beds, likeflowers growing in gardens, and edged them round with borders of wildthyme. Then, with great labour, he collected forty or fifty snail shellsand laid them in rows, making each row consist only of those like eachother in colouring. He had lines of dark brown shells, of pale yellow,and of striped shells. These again he subdivided according to the widthand number of their stripes. Once he ventured to creep to a place fromwhich he could watch the sea. He saw that the tide was flowing. Belowhim on the strand were a number of seagulls, strutting, fluttering,shrieking, splashing with wing-tips and feet in the oncoming waves. Hesupposed that the young fry of some fish must have drifted shorewards,and that the birds were feasting on them. Then', at the far end of thebay, he saw men's figures moving, near the Black Rock, among the boatshauled up on the shore in the creek from which he and Maurice and Unahad set out to fish on Rackle Roy. A dread seized him that these mightbe yeomen. Since he had come within reach of home, since he had seen andheard the sea, since he had breathed the familiar salt-laden air, hiscourage had left him. He felt a very coward, desperately anxious not tobe caught and dragged back again to the horror of death. He wanted tolive now that he was back at home and almost within reach of Una.He eyed the distant figures anxiously, and then crept back and laytrembling in his hollow among his ordered snail-shells and the flowers,already withered, which he had plucked and planted in the sand.
At last the sun set. Neal waited for an hour while the June twilightslowly faded. He watched the sandhills round his lair turn from brightyellow to grey, watched them while they seemed in the fading light togrow loftier, and assume a weird majesty which was not their's inthe daytime. The objects near at hand, the faded flowers, and thesnail-shells, and the rods of woven bent, lost their bright colours andbecame almost invisible. The eternal roaring of the sea seemed to besubdued, as if even it felt awed by the stillness of the June night.The sand on which he lay was damped with dew. Only the sharp cry of thecorncrake broke the solemnity of the night.
He rose, and, peering anxiously before him as each fresh stretch of hisway became visible, crossed the sandhills. Avoiding the stepping-stonesand the regular crossing-place, he waded through the brook which rangurgling between the sandhills and the rough track beyond them. Hecrossed it, and, skirting the rear of a cottage, reached the top of theRunkerry cliffs. Far below him the sea rushed, white-lipped, against therocks. The tide was almost full. The scene was as it had been ten daysago, ten years ago, a whole lifetime ago, when he walked this same waywith Donald Ward. Still keeping close to the sea, he avoided the highroad near the Causeway, plodded along the stony track past the RockingStone and the Wishing Well, climbed the Shepherd's Path, and once morewalked along the verge of the cliff above Port na Spaniard and the HorseShoe Bay and Pleaskin Head. He reached Port Moon, and saw far belowhim the glimmer of a light in the rude shelter where fishermen lodge insummer time. Avoiding the farmhouse near him on his right, and the lanewhich led past it to the high road, he went on, clinging close to thesea as if for safety. He rested a while in the shelter of the ruins ofDun-severic Castle, and then went on till his feet were stumbling amongthe graves of Templeastra, where the dust of his mother lay. It was darknow. He guessed that he must have been an hour and a half on his way. Hecame close to the manse--his home. Below him lay Ballintoy Strand, withits sentinel white rocks which keep eternal watch against invading seas.Between him and his home there was the road to cross and the meadow towade through. It must, as he guessed, be eleven o'clock. His fatherand Hannah Macaulay would be in bed. He would have to rouse them withcautious tapping upon window panes.
He reached the back of the house at last, and saw, to his amazement,that a light burned in the kitchen, and that the door stood wide open.A dread seized him. Perhaps the house was occupied by soldiers. For amoment he thought of turning back again to the sea and the cliffs. Buthe wanted food, and it was absolutely necessary for him to communicatewith some one. His plan was to lie hid in the Pigeon Cave, but he musthave food brought to him day by day, and he must let his father orHannah know where he was going.
Very cautiously he crept forward and peered through the window. Therewas a candle in its tall iron stand on the floor, and the peat fireburned brightly on the hearth. A row of brass candlesticks were on themantel-board. Hannah Macaulay sat on a chair near the door knitting. Theroom, he saw, was neat and orderly as ever.
The lids of the pots and the metal dish-covers gleamed from the nailson which they hung round the walls. The pewter plates, bronze jugs,and upturned noggins stood in shining rows on the dresser shelves. Nealwaited. Not a sound reached him from the house. He took courage andslipped through the open door.
"Is that you yoursel', Master Neal?" said Hannah, quietly, "I ha' yoursupper ready for ye. I was sitting up for you. You're late the night."
She rose from her seat and, without a sign of surprise or excitement,closed the door and bolted it.
"Hannah, how is it that you are expecting me? You can't have known thatI was coming. How did you know?"
Hannah took plates from the dresser and food from the cupboard while sheanswered him.
"Master Maurice's groom, the lad they call James, rode in from Antrimthe day afore yesterday with a note for Miss Una ower by. She telltme that you'd be coming and that it was more nor like you'd travel bynight. I've had your supper ready, and I've sat waiting for you thesetwo nights, I knew rightly that it was here you'd come first."
"Where is my father?"
"He's gone, Master Neal. The sojers came and took him, but he bid metell you not to be afeard or taking on about
him. He was thinking they'dsend him across the sea, maybe to Scotland, he said, but they wouldnahurt him. So eat your bit and take your sup, my bairn. You must be soretroubled with the hunger. How ever did ye thole?"
"I have your bed ready for you," she said as Neal ate, "and it's in ityou ought to be by right. I'm thinking it's more than yin night since yehae lain atween the sheets, judging by the looks of ye."
"It's five, Hannah, and it will be twice five more before I sleep in abed again. I dare not stay here."
"Thon's what Miss Una said. But, faith, if it's the yeomen you're afeardof, I'll no let them near you."
"I daren't, Hannah; I daren't do it. I must away to-night and lie in thePigeon Cave. I'll be safe there, and you must manage somehow to get foodto me."
"Is it me that you look to be climbing down them sliddery rocks andswimming intil the cold sea among your caves and hiding holes? I'm tooold for the like, but there's a lassie with bonny brown eyes that'll dothat and more for ye. Don't you be afeard, Master Neal. She'd climbthe Causey chimney pots and take the silver sixpence off the top ifshe thought you were wanting it. Ay, or swim intil them caves, that GodAlmighty never meant for man nor maid to enter, and if were waiting forher at the hinder end of one of them. She's been here an odd time or twasince ever she got the letter that the groom lad fetched. I've seen theglint in her eyes at the sound o' your name, and the red go out of hercheek at word of them dratted yeos, bad scran to them! I'm no so oldyet, but I mind weel how a young lassie feels for the lad she's after.Ay, my bairn, it's all yin, gentle or simple, lord's daughter orbeggar's wench, when the love of a lad has got the grip o' them. Andthere was yin with her--the foreign lady with the lang name. For allthat she mocks and fleers as if there was nothing in the wide world butplay-actin' and gagin' about. Faith, she's an artist, but she might bemore help than Miss Una herself if it came to a pinch. She's a cunningone, that. I'm thinking that she's no unlike the serpent that's moresubtle than any beast of the field. She has a way of glowerin' a bodyand giving a bit of a girn to her mouth. Man or woman or red-coatedsojer itself, they'd need to be up gey an' early that would get thebetter o' her. A bird might be lang afore it could find time to build anest in her ear, so it might. Eh! but, my poor lad, it's a sorry thingto think of ye lyin' the night through among the hard stones and me inmy warm bed. Eh! but it grieves me sore---- whisht, boy, what's thon?"
Hannah started to her feet. Hand to ear, lips parted, with eager eyesand head bent forward she listened.
"It's the tread of horses; they're coming up the loany."
"I must run for it," said Neal, "let me out of the door, Hannah."
"Bide now, bide a wee, they'd see you if you went through the door."
She put out the lamp as she spoke.
"Do you slip through to the master's room and open the window. Go cannynow, and make no noise. Get through and off with ye into your cave ashard as ever you can lift a foot, I'll cap them at the door, lad. I'mthe woman can do it. Faith and I'll sort them, be they who it may, so asthey'll no be in too great a hurry to come ridin' to this house again,the black-hearted villains. But I'll learn them manners or I'm done wi'them else my name's no Hannah Macaulay."
Neal, as he slipped silently from the room, was aware that Hannahmeditated a vigorous attack upon her midnight visitors. She took thelong kitchen poker in her hand, shook it with a grim smile, and thrustthe end of it into the heart of the fire.
There was a knock at the door. Hannah, standing in a corner of the room,and hidden from any one looking in through the window, neither spoke norstirred. The knocking was repeated, and again repeated. Hannah remainedsilent.
"Open the door," shouted a voice from without, "open the door at once."
Still there was no reply.
"We know you're within, Hannah Macaulay, we saw the light before you putit out. Open to us, or we'll batter in the door, and then it will be theworse for you."
"And who may be you that come knocking and banging the door of a dacenthouse at this time o' night, making a hullabaloo fit for to wake thedead; and it the blessed Sabbath too?"
"Sabbath be damned; it's Thursday night."
"Is it, then, is it? There's them that wouldn't know if it was Mondaynor Tuesday, nor yet Wednesday, nor the blessed Sabbath day itself, and,what's more, wouldn't care if they did know. That just shows what likelads you are. Away home out o' this to your beds, if so be that you haveany beds to go to."
In fact the men outside were perfectly right. The day was Thursday,though it neared Friday. The Sabbath was a long way off yet, as Hannahknew quite well.
"You doited old hag, open the door."
"I'm a lone widow woman," said Hannah, plaintively, "I canna be lettingthe likes of ye in and me in my bed. It wouldna be dacent if I did.Where'd my good name be if I did the like and me not know ye?"
A savage kick at the door shook it on its hinges.
"Bide quiet, now," said Hannah, "and tell me who ye are afore I opento you. Would you have me let robbers intil the house, and the masterawa'?"
"We're men of the Killulta yeomanry, we're here to search the house byorder of Captain Twinely. Open in the King's name."
"Why couldn't ye have tellt me that afore? There isn't a woman livinghas as much respect for the King as mysel'. Wait now, wait till I slipon my petticoat. You wouldna have a woman come to the door to you in hershift, would ye?"
There was a long pause--too long for the yeomen outside. Another kick,and then another, shook the door. Hannah went over to it and began tofumble with the bolt.
"I'm afeard," she said, "that the lock's hampered."
"I'll soon cure that; stand clear of the keyhole till I fire."
"For the Lord's sake, man, dinna be shootin' aff your guns, I cannaabide the sound o' the like. It dizzens me. Dinna be hasty, fair andeasy goes far in the day. Who is it you said you were?"
"The yeomen, you deaf old hag."
"The yeomen, God bless us, the yeomen. That's the kind of lads thatdresses themselves up braw in sojers' coats and then, when there's anyfighting going on, let's the real sojers do it, and they stand and lookround to see the gommerels admiring them. Faith I'll let you in. There'sno call even for a hirplin ould woman with one foot in the grave and theither out of it to be afeard of the likes of you."
Hannah Macaulay's description of her bodily condition erred on theside of self-depreciation. The one foot which remained out of the gravecarried her across the kitchen floor with remarkable speed. She took thepoker now red, almost white, hot at the end, darted back to the door,and flung it open. With a wild whoop she rushed at the two yeomen whostood on the threshold. There were other yells besides her's, a smellof burning cloth and singed flesh, a hurried treading of feet, and aclattering of the hoofs of frightened horses. Hannah sent into the nighta peal of derisive laughter, and then turned into the house and shut thedoor.
"I said I'd sort them," she chuckled, "and I've sorted them rightly. Yino' them will carry a mark on his mug to the day of his death, and luckyif he hasn't lost the sight of an eye. There'll be a hole in the breeksof the other that'll tak a quare width of cloth to make a patch forit. And, what's more, thon man'll no sit easy on his horse for a bit.They'll not be for chasing Master Neal the night any way. But, faith,this house will be no place for me the morrow. I'll just tak my wee bitduds under my arm and away with me up to Dunseveric House. Miss Una'lltake me in when she hears the tale I ha' to tell. I'd like to see theyeos or the sojers either that would fetch me out of the ould lord'skitchen. If they tak to ravishing and rieving the master's plenishins Icanna help it. Better a ravished house nor a murdered woman."
Neal got out of the window, and once more crossed the meadow. He lay fora minute in the ditch beside the road listening intently. He feared thathe might have been tracked home, that the house might be surrounded, andthat escape might be difficult or impossible. But there was no soundof any sort on the road--neither voices of men, treading of horses, orjangling of accoutrements. Evidently the men at the door of
the mansewere no more than a patrol. They were entering the house out of wantondesire to annoy Hannah Macaulay or on the chance of discovering theresomething which might give them a clue--not because they actuallysuspected that he was within. He heard the crash of the first kick onthe door, rose from the ditch, crossed the road, and took to the edge ofthe cliffs again. He walked quickly, frightened and shaken. He startedinto a breathless run when Hannah's battle whoop reached him on thestill air. He heard distinctly the men's shrieks, and even the noise ofthe runaway horses galloping on the hard road. He went the faster--a madterror driving him.
He passed Port Moon again, crossed the majestic brow of Pleaskin Head,skirted the Causeway, and reached the Runkerry cliffs. He went moreslowly, ceased running, sat down, drawing deep laboured breaths. Thefood he ate in the manse had strengthened him. The assurance of the careand watchfulness of his friends cheered him, but his mind was like thatof a hunted animal. He had no courage left, nothing but an overmasteringdesire to hide himself.
He rose, and went on again, reached the cliff above the Rock Pigeons'Cave, and found the place where descent to the sea was possible. Therewas no path, just a precipitous grass slope, and then steep rocks, andbelow them the dark, moaning sea. A timid man might shrink from theclimb in daylight, a bold man would be rash to attempt it at night, butof this short, slippery grass and these sharp rocks Neal had no fear atall. He knew them all too well to fear them. He let himself slide down,sure of the resting-place his feet would find. With firm hand-grips andconfident steps he descended from rock to rock until he stood at laston a flat shelf, a foot or two above the sea. He saw the long channel,rock-bounded, narrow, dark, along which he and Maurice had pilotedtheir boat. He saw beyond it the mouth of the cave--a space of actualblackness on the gloomy face of the cliff. He heard the water drop fromthe roof into the sea with heavy splashes. At his feet the long swellwrithed between the walls of rock, reached up black lips and drew themdown again with hollow, sobbing sound. From the extreme darkness of thecave came the dull moaning of the ocean, as of some inarticulate monsterbowed with everlasting woe. A swim through this cold, lonely water,between the smooth walls which rose higher and higher on either side,into the impenetrable gloom of the echoing cavern and on to the extremeend of it, was horrible to contemplate. But for Neal there were worsehorrors behind. His cowardice made him brave. He stripped and stoodshivering, though the night air was warm enough. He wrapped his clothesinto a bundle and, with his neck scarf, bound them firmly on his head.He slipped without a splash into the water and struck out towards themouth of the cave.
The dull swell lifted him on its breast and drew him down again as if towrap him with huge cold hands. An undertow of receding water pulled himto the rocks and he touched them with his hands. He reached the mouth ofthe cave, and felt the splash of the drops which fell from it. He movedvery cautiously, fearing to strike suddenly on the sunken rocks. He feltfor them with his feet, reached them, stood upright waist-deep. Then,with cold limbs and a numb terror in his heart, he plunged forwardagain into the deep water within the cave. He swam on, with set teeth,close-pressed lips, and eyes strained to see a foot in front of him intothe blackness. Once he turned and looked back. Through the mouth of thecave he saw the dim grey of the June night--a framed space of sky whichwas not actually black. He felt as if he were looking his last at thefamiliar world of living things--as if he were on his way to some gloomyother world of moaning, forlorn spirits, of desolate, disappointedloves, of weary, spent souls floating aimlessly on chill, unfathomablesorrow. He swam on, and heard at last the splash of the waves on theshore. His feet touched bottom. He slipped and slid among large slimystones, worn incredibly smooth by their age-long washing in this sunlessplace. He struggled forward breast-deep, waist-deep, knee-deep, in theblack water. He reached dry ground, crawled upwards till he felt theboulders no longer damp, and knew that he lay above the reach of thetide. He unbound the bundle from his head, clothed himself, and feltthe blood steal warm through his limbs again. He staggered further up,groped his way to the side of the cave, as if the touch of solid rockwould give him some sense of companionship. Then, like a benedictionfrom the God who watched over him, sleep came.