with the sea at its lower end--picking their path as they went along
huge granite boulders or across fallen stones, till they reached a
small beach of firm white sand, on whose even floor the waves were
rolling in and curling over magnificently. It was a curious place,
Eustace thought, rather dreary than beautiful. On either side rose
black cliffs, towering sheer into the air, and shutting out overhead
all but a narrow cleft of murky sky. Around, the sea dashed itself in
angry white foam against broken stacks and tiny weed-clad skerries. At
the end of the first point a solitary islet, just separated from the
mainland by a channel of seething water, jutted above into the waves,
with hanging tresses of blue and yellow seaweed. Tyrrel pointed to it
with one hand. "That's Michael's Crag," he said, laconically. "You've
seen it before, no doubt, in half a dozen pictures. It's shaped
exactly like St. Michael's Mount in miniature. A marine painter fellow
down here's forever taking its portrait."

Le Neve gazed around him with a certain slight shudder of unspoken
disapprobation. This place didn't suit his sunny nature. It was even
blacker and more dismal than the brown moorland above it. Tyrrel
caught the dissatisfaction in his companion's eye before Le Neve had
time to frame it in words.

"Well, you don't think much of it?" he said, inquiringly.

"I can't say I do," Le Neve answered, with apologetic frankness. "I
suppose South America has spoilt me for this sort of thing. But it's
not to my taste. I call it gloomy, without being even impressive."

"Gloomy," Tyrrel answered; "oh, yes, gloomy, certainly. But
impressive; well, yes. For myself, I think so. To me, it's all