but as I moved south I came to a place where two small capes
enclosed an inlet. It must have been a fault in the volcanic rock, for
its depth was portentous. I stripped and dived far into its cold
abysses, but I did not reach the bottom. I came to the surface rather
breathless, and struck out to sea, where I floated on my back and
looked at the great rampart of crag. I saw that the place where I
had spent the night was only a little oasis of green at the base of
one of the grimmest corries the imagination could picture. It was as
desert as Damaraland. I noticed, too, how sharply the cliffs rose
from the level. There were chimneys and gullies by which a man
might have made his way to the summit, but no one of them could
have been scaled except by a mountaineer.

I was feeling better now, with all the frowsiness washed out of
me, and I dried myself by racing up and down the heather. Then I
noticed something. There were marks of human feet at the top of
the deep-water inlet - not mine, for they were on the other side.
The short sea-turf was bruised and trampled in several places, and
there were broken stems of bracken. I thought that some fisherman
had probably landed there to stretch his legs.

But that set me thinking of the Portuguese Jew. After breakfasting
on my last morsels of food - a knuckle of braxy and a bit of
oatcake - I set about tracking him from the place where he had first
entered the glen. To get my bearings, I went back over the road I
had come myself, and after a good deal of trouble I found his
spoor. It was pretty clear as far as the stream, for he had been
walking - or rather running - over ground with many patches of
gravel on it. After that it was difficult, and I lost it entirely in the
rough heather below the crags. All that I could make out for