Her girlish figure as she stood with one arm clasping the rock beside her, looked a slight enough obstacle in the path.

“Intimidate him!  A parcel o’ rubbish; who’s goin’ to intimidate him as you call it.  Get out o’ the way, and don’t go meddling in men’s concerns that you know nothing about.”

He seized her wrist roughly, and with her precarious footing the position was dangerous enough:  but she clung with her other arm like a limpit to the rock.  He attempted to dislodge her, when she suddenly turned and fled back on her own accord.  He hastened after her, and it was not till he had gone some yards that, putting his hand to his belt, he found that the knife had gone.

“The jade,” he muttered, “she did it on purpose,” and even with his hatred and malice was mingled a gleam of admiration at the cleverness that had outwitted him.  He hurried on towards the cliff path, but the sunset light was already fading into dusk, and he had to choose his footing more carefully.  When he reached the point where the rope began, Marie had already gone down and was leaning on the rock beside her father.  Had he been near he might have noticed a strange expression in her eyes, as she furtively watched the precipitous descent.  The purple shadows now filled both sky and sea, and the island opposite reared its grand outline solemnly in the twilight depths, as though sitting in eternal judgment on the transient ways of men.  The evening star shone softly above the sea.  Suddenly a crash, followed by one sharp cry, was heard; then all was still.

“Good God!  That’s some one fallen down the path—­why don’t you go and see, child?” but Marie seemed as if she could not stir.  Old Andre slowly dragged himself on to his feet, and took her arm, and they went together.  At the foot of the path they found the body of Pierre, dead, his head having struck against a rock.

“He must have missed his footing in the dark,” said Andre, when they had rowed round to the fishing village to carry the news, and the solitary constable had bustled forth, and was endeavouring to collect information about the accident from the only two witnesses, of whom the girl seemed to have lost the power of speech.

“He must have missed his footing in the dark; and then the rope broke with his weight and the clutch he give it.  It lies there all loose on the ground.”

“It shouldn’t have broken,” said the constable.  “But I always did say we’d ought to have an iron chain down there.”

CHAPTER III.

Fifty years had passed, with all their seasons’ changes, and the changing life of nature both by land and sea, and had made as little impression on the island as the ceaseless dashing of the waves against its coast.  The cliffs, the caves and the sea-beaten boulders were the same; the colours of the bracken on the September hills, and of the sea anemones in their green, pellucid pools, were the same, and the fishermen’s path down to the cove was the same.  No iron chain had been put there, but the rope had never broken again.