as christian walked rapidly across the uneven turf towards the sea at midnight, his thoughts were divided between a schoolboy delight in the adventurous nature of his expedition and an uncomfortable sensation of surreptitiousness. he was not accustomed to this sort of work, and felt remarkably like a thief. if by some mischance his absence was discovered at the hall, it would be difficult to account for it unless he played the part of a temporary lunatic. fortunately his window communicated easily enough with the garden by means of a few stone steps, but visitors are not usually in the habit of leaving their bedrooms in order to take the air at midnight. thinking over these things in his rapid and rather superficial way, he unconsciously quickened his pace.

the night was clear and starlit; the air soft and very pleasant, with a faint breath of freshness from the south-west. the moon, being well upon the wane, would not rise for an hour or more, but the heavens were glowing with the gentler light of stars, and on earth the darkness was of that transparent description which sailors prefer to the brightest moonlight.

christian vellacott had worked out most problems in life for himself. taken as a whole, his solutions had been fairly successful—as successful as those of most men. if his views upon things in general were rather photographic—that is to say, hard, with clearly defined shadows—it was owing to his father's somewhat cynical training and to the absence of a mother's influence. elderly maiden ladies, with sufficient time upon their hands to manage other people's affairs in addition to their own, complained of his want of sympathy, which may be read in the sense of stating that he neither sought theirs nor asked advice upon questions connected with himself. this self-reliance was the inevitable outcome of his life at home and at the office of the beacon. admirable as it may be, independence can undoubtedly be carried to an unpleasant excess—unpleasant that is for home life. women love to see their men-folk a trifle dependent upon them.

christian was in the midst of a problem as he walked across the tableland that stretched from st. mary western to the sea. that problem absorbed more of his attention than the home politics of france; it required a more careful study than any article he had ever penned for the beacon. it gave him greater anxiety than aunt judy and aunt hester combined. yet it was comprised in a single word. a single arm could encompass the whole of it. the single word—hilda.

leaving the narrow road, he presently struck the little pathway leading to the cove. suddenly he stopped, and stood motionless. there—not twenty yards from him—was the still figure of a man. behind christian the land rose gradually to some considerable height, so that he stood in darkness, while against the glowing sky the figure of this watcher was clearly defined in hard outline. instinctively crouching down and seeking the covert of a few low bushes, christian decreased the intervening distance by a few yards. the faint hope that it might prove to be a coastguard was soon dispelled. the heavy clothing and loose thigh-boots were those of a fisherman. the huge “cache-nez” which lay in coils upon his shoulders and completely protected the neck and throat, was such as is worn by the natives of the c?tes-du-nord.

the sea boomed forth its melancholy song, far down in the black depths beyond. the tide was high, and the breeze freshening every moment. christian could have crept up to the man's very feet without being detected. lying still upon the short, dry grass, he watched for some moments.

from the man's clumsy attitude it was almost possible to divine his slow, mindless nature—for there is expression in the very turn of a man's leg as he stands—and it was easy to see that he was guarding the little path down the cliff to the cove.

he had been posted there, and evidently meant to stay till called away.

there was only one way, now, to the cove, and that was down the face of the cliff: the way that christian had that very afternoon pronounced so hazardous. by day it was dangerous enough; by night it was almost an impossibility.

he crept noiselessly along to the eastward, so that the watcher stood upon the windward side of him, and reaching the brink he peered over into the darkness. of course he could discern nothing. the sea rose and fell with a monotonous roar; overhead the stars twinkled as merrily as they have twinkled over the strifes of men from century to century.

quietly he knelt upright and buttoned his coat with some care. then without a moment's hesitation he crept to the edge and cautiously disappeared into the grim abyss of darkness. slowly and laboriously he worked his way down, feeling for each foothold in advance. occasionally he muttered impatiently to himself at the slowness of his progress. he knew that the strata of soft sandstone trended downwards at an easy angle, and with consummate skill took full advantage of his knowledge. occasionally he was forced to progress sideways with his face to the rock and hands outstretched till his fingers were cramped, and the feeling known as “pins and needles” assailed his arms. then he would rest for some moments, peering into the darkness below him all the while. once or twice he dropped a small stone cautiously, holding it at arm's length. when the tiny messenger touched earth soon after leaving his hand, he continued his downward progress. once, no sound followed for some seconds, and then it was only a distant concussion far down beside the sea. with an involuntary shudder, the climber turned and made his way upwards and sideways again, before venturing to descend once more.

for half an hour he continued his perilous struggle, till his strong arms were stiff and his fingers almost powerless. with marvellous tenacity he held to his purpose. never since leaving the summit had he been able to rest both hands at once. with a dogged, mechanical endurance which is essentially characteristic of climbers and mountaineers, he lowered himself, inch by inch, foot by foot. louder and louder sang the sea, as if in derision at his petty efforts, but through his head there rushed another sound infinitely more terrible: a painful, continuous buzz, which seemed to press upon his temples. a dull pain was slowly creeping up the muscles of his neck towards his head. all these symptoms the climber knew. the buzzing in his ears would never cease until he could lie down and breathe freely with every muscle relaxed, every sinew slack. the dull ache would creep up until it reached his brain, and then nothing could save him—no strength of will could prevent his fingers from relaxing their hold.

“sish—sish, sish—sish!” laughed the waves below. placidly the stars held on their stately course—each perhaps peopled by millions of its own—young and old, tame and fiery—all pursuing shadows as we do here.

“this is getting serious,” muttered christian, with a pitiful laugh. the perspiration was running down his face, burning his eyes, and dripping from his chin. with straining eyes he peered into the night. close beneath him there was a ledge of some breadth. it was not flat, but inclined upwards from the face of the cliff, thus forming a shelf of solid stone. for some seconds he stared continuously at this, so as to reduce to a minimum the chance of being mistaken. then with great caution he slid down the steep incline of smooth stone and landed safely. the glissade lasted but a moment, nevertheless it recalled to his mind a picture which was indelibly stamped in his memory. years before he had seen a man slide like this, unintentionally, after a false step. again that picture came to him—unimpressionable as his life had rendered him. again he saw the glittering expanse of snow, and on it the broad, strong figure of the vaudois guide sliding down and down, with madly increasing speed—feet foremost, skilful to the last. again he felt the thrill which men cannot but experience at the sight of a man, or even of a dumb beast, fighting bravely for life. again he saw the dull gleam of the uplifted ice-axe as the man dealt scientific blow after blow on the frozen snow, attempting to arrest his terrible career. and again in his mind's eye the pure expanse of spotless white lay before him, scarred by one straight streak, marking where the taciturn mountaineer had vanished over the edge of the precipice to his certain doom.

christian lay like a half-drowned man upon the shelving ledge, slowly realising his position. he calculated that he could not yet be half-way down, and his strength was almost exhausted. yet, as he lay there, no thought of waiting for daylight, no question of retreat entered his stubborn west-country brain. the exploit still possessed for him the elements of a good joke, to be related thereafter in such a manner as would enforce laughter.

suddenly—within the softer sound of the sea below—a harsh, grating noise struck his ears. it was to him like the sound made by a nailed boot upon rock. it was as if another were following him down the face of the cliff. in a second he was upon his feet, his weariness a thing forgotten. overhead, against the starlit sky, he could define the line of rock with its sharp, broken angles and uncouth turns. not thirty feet above him something was moving. his first feeling was one of intense fear. every climber knows that it is easier to pass a difficult corner than to stand idle, watching another do it. slowly the dark form came downwards, and suddenly, with a quick sense of unutterable relief, christian saw the black line of a tightened rope. when it was barely ten feet above him he saw that the object was no man, but a square case. in a flash of thought he divined what the box contained, and unhesitatingly ran along the ledge towards it. as it descended he seized it with both hands and swung it in towards himself. with pendulum-like motion it descended, and at last touched the rock at his feet. as this took place he grasped the rope with both hands and threw his entire weight upon it, hauling slowly in, hand over hand. so quickly and deftly was this carried out that those lowering overhead were deceived, and continued to pay out the rope slowly. steadily christian hauled in, the slack falling in snake-like coils at his feet. only being able to guess at his position on the cliff, it was no easy matter to calculate how much rope it was necessary to take in in order to carry out the deception.

at length he ceased abruptly, and proceeded to untie the knots round the bale. then, after the manner of a sailor who is working out of sight with a life-line, he jerked the rope, which immediately began to ascend rapidly and with irregularity. coil after coil ran easily away, and at last the frayed end passed into the darkness above christian's head. he stood there watching it, and when it had disappeared he burst into a low hoarse laugh which suddenly broke off into a sickening gurgle, and he fell sideways and backwards on to the box, clutching at it with his nerveless fingers.

when he recovered his faculties his first sensation was one of great cold. the breeze had freshened with the approach of dawn, and blowing full upon him as he lay bathed in perspiration, the effect was like that of a refrigerator. he moved uneasily, and found that he was lying on the stone ledge outside the box, from which he had fallen. after a moment, he rose rapidly to his feet as if desirous of dismissing the memory of his own collapse, and turned his attention to the bundle. beneath the rough covering of canvas, which was not sewn but merely lashed round, it was easy enough to detect the shape of the case.

“what luck—what wonderful luck,” he muttered, as he groped round the surface of the bundle.

indeed it seemed as if everything had arranged itself for his special benefit and advantage.

the three men whose duty it had been to lower the case coiled up their rope and started off on foot inland, after telling the sentinel stationed at the head of the little path to rejoin his boat. this the man was only too willing to do at once. he was a semi-superstitious breton of no great intelligence, who vastly preferred being afloat in his unsavoury yawl to climbing about unknown rocks in the dark. on the beach, he found his two comrades, to whom he gruffly imparted the information that they were to go on board.

“had the 'monsieur' said nothing else?”

“no, the 'monsieur' said nothing else.”

the breton intellect is not, as a rule, acute. like sheep the three men proceeded to carry up from the water's edge stanley's boat, which was required to carry the heavy case, their own dinghy being too small. this done, they rowed off silently to the yawl, which was rolling lazily in the trough of the sea, a quarter of a mile from the shore. once on board they were regaled with some choice french profanity from the lips of a large man in a sealskin cap and a dirty woollen muffler. this gentleman they addressed as the “patron,” and, with clumsy awe, informed him that they had waited at the same spot as before, but nothing had come, until at length hoel grall arrived with instructions from the “monsieur” to go on board. whereupon further french profanity, followed by unintelligible orders, freely interlarded with embellishments of a forcible tenor.

as the yawl swung slowly round and stood out to sea, christian turned to climb up bury bluff. he found that he had in reality made very little progress in descending. before leaving the case, he edged it by degrees nearer to the base of the ledge, which would render it invisible from the beach. the ascent was soon accomplished, and after a cautious search he concluded that no one was about, so set off home at a rapid pace.

before he reached the hall the light of coming day was already creeping up into the eastern sky. all nature was stirring, refreshed with the balmy dew and coolness of the night. far up in the higher branches of the weymouth pines, the wrens were awake, calling to each other with tentative twitter, and pluming themselves the while for another day of sunshine and song.

like a thief christian hurried on, and creeping into his bedroom window, was soon sleeping the dreamless, forgetful sleep of youth.

by seven o'clock he was awake with all the quick realisation of a londoner. in the country men wake up slowly, and slowly gather together their senses after an all-sufficing sleep of ten hours. in cities, five, four, or even three are sufficient for the unfatigued body and the restless mind. men wake up quickly, and are at once in full possession of their faculties. it is, after all, a mere matter of habit.

christian had slept sufficiently. he rose quite fresh and strong, and presently sat down, coatless to write.

page after page he wrote, turning each leaf over upon its face as it was completed—never referring back, never hesitating, and only occasionally raising his pen from the paper. line after line of neat, small writing, quite different from what his friends knew in letters or on envelopes, flowed from his pen. it was his “press” handwriting, plain, rapid, and as legible as print. the punctuation was attended to with singular care: the commas broad and heavy, the colons like the kisses in a child's letter, round and black. once or twice he smiled as he wrote, and occasionally jerked his head to one side critically as he re-read a sentence.

in less than two hours it was finished. he rose from his seat, and walked slowly to the window. standing there he gazed thoughtfully across the bare, unlovely tableland towards the sea. he had written many hundreds of pages, all more or less masterly; he had read criticisms upon his own work saying that it was good; and yet he knew that the best—the best he had ever written—lay upon the table behind him. then he turned and shook the loose leaves together symmetrically. pensively he counted them. he was young and strong; the world and life lay before him, with their infinite possibilities—their countless opportunities to be seized or left. he looked curiously at the written pages. the writing was his own; the form of every letter was familiar; the heavy punctuation and clean, closely written lines such as the compositor loved to deal with; and while he turned the leaves over he wondered if ever he would do better, for he knew that it was good.