Let me return to the rock.  Under the neck that joins it to the main cliff there runs a natural tunnel, which at low water leads to the long expanse of Polkimbra Beach, with the village itself lying snugly at its further end; so that, standing at the entrance of this curious arch, one may see the little town, with the purple cliffs behind framed between walls of glistening serpentine.  The rock is always washed by the sea, except at low water during the spring tides, though not reaching out so far as Pedn-glas.  In colour it is mainly black as night, but is streaked with red stains that bear an awful likeness to blood; and, though it may be climbed—­and I myself have done it more than once in search of eggs—­it has no scrap of vegetation save where, upon its summit, the gulls build their nests on a scanty patch of grass and wild asparagus.

By the time I had crossed the cove, the western sky was brilliant with the reflected dawn.  Above the cliffs behind, morning had edged the flying wrack of indigo clouds with a glittering line of gold, while the sea in front still heaved beneath the pale yellow light, as a child sobs at intervals after the first gust of passion is over-past.  The tide was at the ebb, and the fresh breeze dropped as I got under the shadow of Dead Man’s Rock and looked through the archway on to Polkimbra Sands.

Not a soul was to be seen.  The long stretch of beach had scarcely yet caught the distinctness of day, but was already beginning to glisten with the gathering light, and, as far as I could see, was desolate.  I passed through and clambered out towards the south side of the rock to watch the sea, if perchance some bit of floating wreckage might explain the mystery of last night.  I could see nothing.

Stay!  What was that on the ledge below me, lying on the brink just above the receding wave?  A sailor’s cap!  Somehow, the sight made me sick with horror.  It must have been a full minute before I dared to open my eyes and look again.  Yes, it was there!  The cry of last night rang again in my ears with all its supreme agony as I stood in the presence of this silent witness of the dead—­this rag of clothing that told so terrible a history.

Child as I was, the silent terror of it made me faint and giddy.  I shut my eyes again, and clung, all trembling, to the ledge.  Not for untold bribes could I have gone down and touched that terrible thing, but, as soon as the first spasm of fear was over, I clambered desperately back and on to the sands again, as though all the souls of the drowned were pursuing me.

Once safe upon the beach, I recovered my scattered wits a little.  I felt that I could not repass that dreadful rock, so determined to go across the sands to Polkimbra, and homewards around the cliffs.  Still gazing at the sea as one fascinated, I made along the length of the beach.  The storm had thrown up vast quantities of weed, that lined the water’s edge in straggling lines and heaps, and every heap in turn chained and riveted my shuddering eyes, that half expected to see in each some new or nameless horror.