He waved his hand towards the north, when he first saw me.  “Keep on that side!” he shouted.  “And come on down here to me!”

I went down to him, choking for breath, with my heart leaping as if it was like to leap out of me.  I was past speaking.  I had a hundred questions to put to him; and not one of them would pass my lips.  His face frightened me.  I saw a look in his eyes which was a look of horror.  He snatched the boot out of my hand, and set it in a footmark on the sand, bearing south from us as we stood, and pointing straight towards the rocky ledge called the South Spit.  The mark was not yet blurred out by the rain—­and the girl’s boot fitted it to a hair.

The Sergeant pointed to the boot in the footmark, without saying a word.

I caught at his arm, and tried to speak to him, and failed as I had failed when I tried before.  He went on, following the footsteps down and down to where the rocks and the sand joined.  The South Spit was just awash with the flowing tide; the waters heaved over the hidden face of the Shivering Sand.  Now this way and now that, with an obstinate patience that was dreadful to see, Sergeant Cuff tried the boot in the footsteps, and always found it pointing the same way—­straight to the rocks.  Hunt as he might, no sign could he find anywhere of the footsteps walking from them.

He gave it up at last.  Still keeping silence, he looked again at me; and then he looked out at the waters before us, heaving in deeper and deeper over the quicksand.  I looked where he looked—­and I saw his thought in his face.  A dreadful dumb trembling crawled all over me on a sudden.  I fell upon my knees on the beach.

“She has been back at the hiding-place,” I heard the Sergeant say to himself.  “Some fatal accident has happened to her on those rocks.”

The girl’s altered looks, and words, and actions—­the numbed, deadened way in which she listened to me, and spoke to me—­when I had found her sweeping the corridor but a few hours since, rose up in my mind, and warned me, even as the Sergeant spoke, that his guess was wide of the dreadful truth.  I tried to tell him of the fear that had frozen me up.  I tried to say, “The death she has died, Sergeant, was a death of her own seeking.”  No! the words wouldn’t come.  The dumb trembling held me in its grip.  I couldn’t feel the driving rain.  I couldn’t see the rising tide.  As in the vision of a dream, the poor lost creature came back before me.  I saw her again as I had seen her in the past time—­on the morning when I went to fetch her into the house.  I heard her again, telling me that the Shivering Sand seemed to draw her to it against her will, and wondering whether her grave was waiting for her there.  The horror of it struck at me, in some unfathomable way, through my own child.  My girl was just her age.  My girl, tried as Rosanna was tried, might have lived that miserable life, and died this dreadful death.