It was a dramatic scene:  the dark, heaving sea, with the fitful gleam of the moonlight; the silent pier, with the one huge light; the tall, dark figure standing there so motionless.  Why did she look round with that hurried stealthy glance, as though so desirous of being alone?  Presently she seemed to realize that she stood where the light fell brightest, and she turned away.  She walked to the side of the pier farthest from me, where she stood opposite to the bright lights of the western pier.  She did not remain there long, but crossed again, and this time she chose that part of the pier where I was sitting.

Far back in the deep shade in the corner she did not see me; she did not suspect that any one was near.  I saw her give a hasty look down the pier, but her glance never fell on the corner where I sat.  She went to the railings—­one or two of them were broken and had not been repaired; in a more frequented place it might, perhaps, have been dangerous.  She did not seem to notice it.  She stood for some minutes in silence; then I heard again bitter weeping, passionate sobs, long-drawn sighs.  I heard a smothered cry of “Oh, Heaven; oh, Heaven have pity!” and then a sickly gleam of light came from the sky, and by its light I saw that she took the bundle from under her arm.  I could not see what it was or what it held, but she bent her head over it, she kissed it, sobbed over it with passionate sobs, then raised it above the railings and let it fall slowly into the water.

There was a slight splash; no other sound.  As she raised the bundle I saw distinctly that it was something wrapped in a gray and black shawl.

I swear before Heaven that no thought of wrong came to my mind; I never dreamed of it.  I had watched her first because the rare grace of her tall figure and of her walk came to me as a surprise, then because she was evidently in such bitter sorrow, then because she seemed so desirous of being alone, but never did one thought cross my mind that there was a shadow of blame—­or wrong; I should have been far more on the alert had I thought so.  I was always of a dreamy, sentimental, half-awake kind of mind; I thought of nothing more than a woman, desperate, perhaps, with an unhappy love, throwing the love-letters and presents of a faithless lover into the sea—­nothing more.  I repeat this most emphatically, as I should not like any suspicion of indolence or indifference to rest upon me.

A slight splash—­not of anything heavy—­no other sound; no cry, no word—­a moment’s pause in the running of the waves, then they went on again as gayly as ever, washing the wooden pillars, and wreathing them with fresh seaweed.  The tall figure, with the head bent over the rail, might have been a statue for all the life or stir there was within her.

Quite a quarter of an hour passed, and she did not stir.  I began to wonder if she were dead; her head was bent the whole time, watching the waves as they ran hurrying past.  Then the lady moon relented, and showed her fair face again; a flood of silver fell over the sea—­each wave seemed to catch some of it, and break with a thousand ripples of light—­the white cliffs caught it—­it fell on the old pier, and the tall black figure stood out in bold relief against the moonlit sky.