brought us word how a bit of the cliff near Michael's Crag had
foundered unawares, and struck two people who were walking below--a
Mr. Trevennack, in lodgings at Gunwalloe, and his boy Michael. The
father wasn't much hurt, they said; but the son--oh, Eustace! the son
was dangerously wounded. ... I listened in terror.... He lived out the
night, and died next morning."

Tyrrel leaned back in agony as he spoke, and looked utterly crushed.
It was an awful memory. Le Neve hardly knew what to say, the man's
remorse was so poignant. After all those years the boy's thoughtless
act seemed to weigh like a millstone round the grown man's neck.
Eustace held his peace, and felt for him. By and by Tyrrel went on
again, rocking himself to and fro on his rough seat as he spoke. "For
fifteen years," he said, piteously, "I've borne this burden in my
heart, and never told anybody. I tell it now first of all men to you.
You're the only soul on earth who shares my secret."

"Then your uncle didn't suspect it?" Eustace asked, all breathless.

Walter Tyrrel shook his head. "On the contrary," he answered, "he said
to me next day, 'How glad I am Walter, my boy, I called you away from
the cliff that moment! It was quite providential. For if you'd
loosened a stone, and then this thing had happened, we'd both of us
have believed it was YOU that did it?' I was too frightened and
appalled to tell him it WAS I. I thought they'd hang me. But from that
day to this--Eustace, Eustace, believe me--I've never ceased to think
of it! I've never forgiven myself!"

"Yet it was an accident after all," Le Neve said, trying to comfort
him.