As I rose to go, a cold raindrop fell upon the back of my hand, and another, and yet another on my face.  I gave a last glance at the sea, where the waves were bursting into strange white shapes that seemed to fling out menacing arms toward me.  Then something moved on the cliff, something black as the black rock it clutched—­a filthy cormorant, craning its hideous head at the sky.

Slowly I plodded homeward across the somber moorland, where the gorse stems glimmered with a dull metallic green, and the heather, no longer violet and purple, hung drenched and dun-colored among the dreary rocks.  The wet turf creaked under my heavy boots, the black-thorn scraped and grated against knee and elbow.  Over all lay a strange light, pallid, ghastly, where the sea spray whirled across the landscape and drove into my face until it grew numb with the cold.  In broad bands, rank after rank, billow on billow, the rain burst out across the endless moors, and yet there was no wind to drive it at such a pace.

Lys stood at the door as I turned into the garden, motioning me to hasten; and then for the first time I became conscious that I was soaked to the skin.

“However in the world did you come to stay out when such a storm threatened?” she said.  “Oh, you are dripping!  Go quickly and change; I have laid your warm underwear on the bed, Dick.”

I kissed my wife, and went upstairs to change my dripping clothes for something more comfortable.

When I returned to the morning room there was a driftwood fire on the hearth, and Lys sat in the chimney corner embroidering.

“Catherine tells me that the fishing fleet from Lorient is out.  Do you think they are in danger, dear?” asked Lys, raising her blue eyes to mine as I entered.

“There is no wind, and there will be no sea,” said I, looking out of the window.  Far across the moor I could see the black cliffs looming in the mist.

“How it rains!” murmured Lys; “come to the fire, Dick.”

I threw myself on the fur rug, my hands in my pockets, my head on Lys’s knees.

“Tell me a story,” I said.  “I feel like a boy of ten.”

Lys raised a finger to her scarlet lips.  I always waited for her to do that.

“Will you be very still, then?” she said.

“Still as death.”

“Death,” echoed a voice, very softly.

“Did you speak, Lys?” I asked, turning so that I could see her face.

“No; did you, Dick?”

“Who said ’death’?” I asked, startled.

“Death,” echoed a voice, softly.

I sprang up and looked about.  Lys rose too, her needles and embroidery falling to the floor.  She seemed about to faint, leaning heavily on me, and I led her to the window and opened it a little way to give her air.  As I did so the chain lightning split the zenith, the thunder crashed, and a sheet of rain swept into the room, driving with it something that fluttered—­something that flapped, and squeaked, and beat upon the rug with soft, moist wings.