“You ban’t going to leave en?” wailed the sailor.  “You ban’t going to leave my brother Sam?”

He was a small, fussy man, with red whiskers; and even his sorrow gave him little dignity.  The men were tender with him.

“Nothing to be done till the tide goes back.”

“But you won’t leave en?  Say you won’t leave en!  He’ve a wife and three children.  He was a saved man, sir, a very religious man; not like me, sir.  He was highly respected in the neighbourhood of St. Austell.  I shouldn’t wonder if the newspapers had a word about en . . .”  The tears were running down his face.

“We must wait for the tide,” said Taffy gently, and tried to lead him away, but he would not go.  So they left him to watch and wait while they returned to their work.

Before noon they recovered and fixed the broken wire cable.  The iron cradle had disappeared, but to rig up a sling and carry out an endless line was no difficult job, and when this was done Taffy crossed over to the island rock and began to inspect damages.  His working gear had suffered heavily, two of his windlasses were disabled, scaffolding, platforms, hods, and loose planks had vanished; a few small tools only remained, mixed together in a mash of puddled lime.  But the masonry stood unhurt, all except a few feet of the upper course on the seaward side, where the gale, giving the cement no time to set, had shaken the dove-tailed stones in their sockets—­a matter easily repaired.

Shortly before three a shout recalled them to the mainland.  The tide was drawing towards low water, and three of the men set to work at once to open a channel and drain off the pool about the base of the big rock.  While this was doing, half a dozen splashed in with iron bars and pickaxes; the rest rigged two stout ropes with tackles, and hauled.  The stone did not budge.  For more than an hour they prised and levered and strained.  And all the while the sailor ran to and fro, snatching up now a pick and now a crowbar, now lending a hand to haul, and again breaking off to lament aloud.

The tide turned, the winter dark came down, and at half-past four Taffy gave the word to desist.  They had to hold back the sailor, or he would have jumped in and drowned beside his brother.

Taffy slept little that night, though he needed sleep.  The salving of this body had become almost a personal dispute between the sea and him.  The gale had shattered two of his windlasses; but two remained, and by one o’clock next day he had both slung over to the mainland and fixed beside the rock.  The news spreading inland fetched two or three score onlookers before ebb of tide—­miners for the most part, whose help could be counted on.  The men of the coast-guard had left the wreck, to bear a hand if needed.  George had come too.  And happening to glance upwards while he directed his men, Taffy saw a carriage with two horses drawn up on the grassy edge of the cliff:  a groom at the horses’ heads and in the carriage a figure seated, silhouetted there high against the clear blue heaven.  Well he recognised, even at that distance, the poise of her head, though for almost four years he had never set eyes on her,—­nor had wished to.