Steadily the tide came up—not slowly and gracefully as in the quiet summer mornings and evenings, but with rapid strides and far-reaching, foaming arms, that seemed to stretch out hungrily towards her. She closed her eyes as the drenching rain fell on her face, and with clasped hands waited—but not for long. For soon the roar became louder, the wind blew more fiercely, and once more she moved further up the beach, until at last there was only a small strip of sand under the cliffs left bare.
Gwladys rose, and wearily gained the narrow strand, and, seeing that the swirling tide already swept over it, she took her stand, leaning against the rocky wall, and once more prepared to wait her doom. Suddenly there was a break in the leaden sky, and while the waves now reached her ankles, the drift widened, and the sun peeped out and cast a fitful gleam on the tossing waves. It was only a gleam, but enough to waken in Gwladys the natural instincts of youth, which had slept within her lately. After all, life was dear! It was better to live miserable than to die miserable! After all, life might hold some solution of her perplexities; God might lighten her burden—to Him nothing was impossible. But it was too late! Already the water reached her knees, and many a wave splashed even over her head.
Meanwhile, in the sail-shed, Hugh and Ivor worked each at his own special work, avoiding each other as much as possible, but still showing no other sign of disturbance.
"I see Captain Roberts at 'The Ship.' Will I go and tell him his sail is done, Mishteer?" said Ivor at last, standing square and straight at the door of the little office.
"Yes," answered Hugh, "if thou canst get there through the storm."
"Twt, twt," was all Ivor's answer as he tied the ears of his cap under his chin. In a few minutes he had reached "The Ship" Inn, and delivered his message, having done which he came out again into the wind and rain. From the door of "The Ship" one could see over the jutting point which hid Traeth-y-daran from the rest of the shore; and Ivor, looking across the stormy waters, seemed struck by something he saw there.
Surely that was a human figure standing up against the bare rock! Yes, the grey form of a woman!—Gwen, no doubt—and she would be drowned for certain, unless he could save her. A few moments he stood uncertain, until, looking round him, he espied a man who slouched up the road to meet him.
"Hello, Will! is that thee, lad? Wilt come with me to Traeth-y-daran?"
"Ay, ay!" shouted the man in return, for the storm was too loud for the ordinary voice to be heard. He was one of those unfortunate creatures so common along the coast—a harmless idiot—a mental state politely described in the neighbourhood as "not wise!" He was always ready to risk his life, of whose value he was but dimly conscious.
Ivor knew it would be useless to ask anyone else to dare with him the fury of that boiling sea, "unless, indeed, Hugh was here," he thought, as he pushed out his boat, regardless of the entreaties of the knot of idlers who had immediately gathered round him.