"Aye, sir, and a grand view it is," said the old man, with pardonable pride. "Man and boy I've growed under the shadow of that cliff, and I know every inch of it, top and bottom. Mighty dangerous it is too, sir," he added, reflectively. "It's not one or two, but nigh upon a score o' accidents as I've known on that cliff."
"The path is none too wide," said Leycester.
"No, sir, and in the dark——" he stopped suddenly, and started. "What was that?" he exclaimed.
"What is the matter?" Leycester asked.
The old man caught his arm suddenly, and pointed to the cliff. Leycester looked up, and the glass fell from his hand. There, on the giddy height, clearly defined against the sky, were two figures, locked together in what appeared a deadly embrace.
"Look!" exclaimed the old man. "The glass—give me the glass!"
Leycester caught up a telescope that stood on a seat beside them and gave it to him; he himself did not need a glass to see the dark, struggling figures, they were all too plain. For one second they stood as if benumbed, and then the echo of the shriek smote upon their ears, and the cliff was bare. The old man dropped the telescope and caught Leycester's arm as he made a bound toward the path.
"No, no, sir!" he exclaimed. "No use to go up there, the boat! the boat!" and he ran to the beach. Leycester followed him like a man in a dream, and tearing off his coat, seized an oar mechanically.
There was not a soul in sight, the peace of the Autumn evening rested on sea and shore, but in Leycester's ears the echo of that awful death-shriek rung as plainly as when he had first heard it. The landlord of the inn, an old sailor, rowed like a young man, and the boat rose over the waves and cleaved its way round the bay as if a dozen men were pulling.