‘No, sir,’ said the man.

Merton then went to Mr. Macrae, and suggested that the boat should be sent across the sea ferry, to try if anything could be learned in the village.  Mr. Macrae agreed, and himself went in the boat, which was presently unmoored, and pulled by two gillies across the loch, that ran like a river with the outgoing tide.

Merton and Bude began to search the cliffs; Merton could hear the hoarse pumping of his own heart.  The cliff’s base was deep in flags and bracken, then the rocks began climbing to the foot of the perpendicular basaltic crag.  The sky, fortunately, was now clear in the west, and lent a wan light to the seekers.  Merton had almost reached the base of the cliff, when, in the deep bracken, he stumbled over something soft.  He stooped and held back the tall fronds of bracken.

It was the body of a man; the body did not stir.  Merton glanced to see the face, but the face was bent round, leaning half on the earth.  It was Blake.  Merton’s guess seemed true.  They had fallen from the cliffs!  But where was that other body?  Merton yelled to Bude.  Blake seemed dead or insensible.

Merton (he was ashamed of it presently) left the body of Blake alone; he plunged wildly in and out of the bracken, still shouting to Bude, and looking for that which he feared to find.  She could not be far off.  He stumbled over rocks, into rabbit holes, he dived among the soaked bracken.  Below and around he hunted, feverishly panting, then he set his face to the sheer cliff, to climb; she might be lying on some higher ledge, the shadow on the rocks was dark.  At this moment Bude hailed him.

‘Come down!’ he cried, ‘she cannot be there!’

‘Why not?’ he gasped, arriving at the side of Bude, who was stooping, with a lantern in his hand, over the body of Blake, which faintly stirred.

‘Look!’ said Bude, lowering the lantern.

Then Merton saw that Blake’s hands were bound down beside his body, and that the cords were fastened by pegs to the ground.  His feet were fastened in the same way, and his mouth was stuffed full of wet seaweed.  Bude pulled out the improvised gag, cut the ropes, turned the face upwards, and carefully dropped a little whisky from his flask into the mouth.  Blake opened his eyes.

‘Where are my poems?’ he asked.

‘Where is Miss Macrae?’ shrieked Merton in agony.

‘Damn the midges,’ said Blake (his face was hardly recognisable from their bites).  ‘Oh, damn them all!’ He had fainted again.

‘She has been carried off,’ groaned Merton.  Bude and he did all that they knew for poor Blake.  They rubbed his ankles and wrists, they administered more whisky, and finally got him to sit up.  He scratched his hands over his face and moaned, but at last he recovered full consciousness.  No sense could be extracted from him, and, as the boat was now visible on its homeward track, Bude and Merton carried him down to the cove, anxiously waiting Mr. Macrae.