The sun was nearing the horizon.  The scene was one of unsurpassed loveliness.  Behind lay the central and southern portions of the island, hushed as if their primaeval rocks were still tenantless.  The outlines of the isles of Herm and Jethou were visible, but already sinking into the shades of evening.  On the left the bold bluffs of L’Eree and Lihou, on the right the rugged masses of the Grandes and the Grosses Rocques, the Gros Commet, the Grande and Petite Fourque, lay in sharpened outline, the lapping waves already assuming a grey tint.  These masses formed the framework of a picture which embraced a boundless wealth of colour, an infinite depth of softness.  Straight from the sun shot out across Cobo Bay a joyous river of gold, so bright that eye could ill bear to face its glow; here and there in its course stood out quaintly-shaped rocks, some drenched with the fulness of the glorious bath, others catching now and again a sprinkling shower.  On each side of the river the sea, clear to its depths where alternate sand and rock made a tangle of capriciously mingled light and shade; its surface, here blue as the still waters of the Grotta Azzurra, there green as the olive, here again red-brown as Carthaginian marble, lay waveless, as with a sense that the beauty was too perfect to be disturbed.  Suddenly the scene was changed; the lustrous outflow was swiftly drawn in and absorbed; a grey hue swept over the darkening surface; in the distance the round, blood-coloured, orb hung above the expectant ocean.

Then all assembled fell on their knees.  The music gave out sharp plaintive notes which were answered by the voices of men and women in short, wailing, as it were inquiring, rhythm; this continued till the sun was on the point of disappearance, when music and voices together burst into a sad chant, seemingly of farewell; the kneeling people extending their hands seaward with an appealing gesture.  One figure only was erect; on the projecting boulder, which is still so conspicuous a feature of the Rocque du Guet, stood the sorceress, her arms also outstretched, her figure, firm, erect, sharply outlined, such as Turner’s mind conceived when he sketched the Last Man.

Father Austin contemplated the scene from a distance.  By his side was his favourite convert, Jean Letocq.

“Strange!” he said, placing his hand on his companion’s shoulder.  “Your race are not sun-worshippers.  Never, except on this day of the year, do they show this feeling; but who that saw them to-day would doubt that they are so!  Is it that from old times their intense love of nature has led them to show in this way their sadness at its decay? or do they by mourning over the close of the sun’s longest day symbolize their recognition of the inevitable end of the longest life of man?  I cannot tell.  But, blind as this worship is, it is better than that of the work of man’s hands.  By God’s will your countrymen may be led from kneeling to the created to mount the ladder