Almost opposite this end of the island and at a short distance, rises the huge pyramidal mass of granite called La Fauconnaire (The Falconry).  It is nearly two hundred feet high, and surmounted, as already mentioned, by a white stone beacon, which from Jethou looks the shape and size of a loaf of white sugar; but a scramble to the top of the rocks for those who have nerve to climb the steep sides of La Fauconnaire, will show that the sugar loaf is fifteen feet high.  La Fauconnaire is, I believe, unclimbable except at one place, at least for those who are not experienced cragsmen or Alpine experts.  At low water a causeway of rocks joins it to the mainland, but at half-tide even it is impassable, except in a boat on a calm day.  On a windy day such a strong tide rushes through the strait that a boat would be swept away in the attempt to cross, although the distance is only four or five hundred feet.  The narrowness of the channel makes the rush greater.

Still keeping the middle path we come to an awful yawning chasm in the earth, called La Creux Terrible.  Its sides are so sheer that one shudders to approach its crumbling brink for fear a slip should mean a step into eternity.  No man could fall here and live to tell the sensation.  Standing near the brink one can just discern the bottom, and hear the sea surging and rolling along the floor as the tide gradually rises.  The chasm is funnel-shaped, and about two hundred feet deep by about one hundred feet across.  The bottom is connected with the beach by a cavern, which may be entered at low tide, and the view taken from below upward; but woe to the individual caught in this cave, for he would have but a poor chance for his life if the tide once hemmed him in.

Leaving this dreadful place, which I never approached but twice in the dark, we shortly come to a very noticeable rock rising from the sea; it is called Le Rocher Rouge, but as the apex takes the form of a gigantic arm-chair, I have taken the liberty (as I have done with many other places and things) of rechristening it Trone de Neptune (Neptune’s Throne), and it has so fixed itself in my mind, that I have often during a stormy night wondered if he might not be sitting there ruling the elements, but never had the temerity to go and see.  I may here tell the reader that although not naturally superstitious, I have a way of peopling my island with beings during the solitary walks I take in the day, that at night I almost fancy these spirit-forms hover round me—­perhaps watching me.  It may be that I have mistaken the flight of a sea-gull or night-bird for something superhuman, but on several occasions I have been warned of approaching danger by something outside myself; not tangible to the touch, nor definable to the eye, but still noticeable to the ear and to the mind.  Put it down a bird, as your opinion, reader, and enjoy that opinion, and let me enjoy my warning watchers, whether fowl or spirit.  Perhaps during my narrative I may have more to say of my “hovering ones.”