He bent low over the impetuous little hand.  “I shall not fail you, mademoiselle. Adieu!”

“Au revoir!” she laughed back.  “Come along, Cinders!  We shall be late for tea.”

He stood motionless on the sunlit sand and watched her go.

She was limping, but she moved quickly notwithstanding.  Cinders trotted soberly by her side.

As she reached the little plage, she turned as if aware of his watching eyes and nonchalantly waved the towel that dangled on her arm.  The sunlight had turned her hair to burnished copper.  It made her for the moment wonderful, and a gleam of swift admiration shot across the Frenchman’s face.

“Merveilleux!” he whispered to himself, and half-aloud, “Good-bye, little bird of Paradise!”

With a courteous gesture of farewell, he turned away.  When he looked again, the child, with her glorious, radiant hair, had passed from sight.

He went back, springing over the rocks, to the Gothic archway that had fired her curiosity.  The tide was rising fast.  Already the white foam raced up to the rocky entrance.  He splashed through it, and went within as one on business bent.

He was absent for some seconds, and soon a large wave broke with a long roar and rushed swirling into the cave.  As the gleaming water ran out again, he emerged.

A single glance was sufficient to show him that retreat by way of the beach was already cut off.  He recognized the fact with a rueful grimace.  The long green waves tumbling along the rocks were rising higher every instant.

With a quick glance around him, the young man sprang for an upstanding rock, reached it in safety, and paused, keenly studying the black face of the cliff.

It frowned above him like a rampart, gloomy, terrible, impregnable.  He shrugged his shoulders with another grimace, then, as the foam splashed up over his feet, leaped lightly onto another rock higher than the first, whence it was possible to reach a great buttress that jutted outwards from the cliff itself.

Once upon this, he began to climb diagonally, clambering like a monkey, availing himself of every inch that offered foothold.  A slip would have meant instant disaster, but this fact did not apparently occur to him, or if it did he was not dismayed thereby.  He even presently, as he cautiously worked his way upwards, began to hum again in gay snatches the song that a child’s clear eyes had set running in his brain that afternoon.

It was a progress that waxed more perilous as he proceeded.  The waves dashed themselves to cataracts below him.  Return was impossible, and many would have deemed advance equally so.  But he struggled on, maintaining his zigzag course upwards, with nerve unfailing and spirits unimpaired.

Gulls flew out above his head and circled about him with indignant protests.  He looked somewhat like a gigantic gull himself, his slim white figure outlined against the darkness of the cliff.  He cried back to the startled birds reassuringly in their own language, but the commotion continued; and presently, finding precarious foothold on a narrow ledge halfway up, he stopped to wipe his forehead and laugh with merriment unfeigned.  He was plainly in love with life—­one in whose eyes all things were good, but yet who loved the hazard of them even better.