"Sure and sartain!" said another man. "We've been working in sight o' the road all day, and the lady couldn't a passed without our seeing her. Have you got a bit of 'bacca, your honor?"
He tossed them a shilling, and hurried back. It was just possible that she may have gone to the station by another road than that which he had watched. Fighting his way against the wind and rain, he reached the station.
From one and another of the porters he inquired if she had been seen, and the answer was the same. No lady answering to Madge's description had reached the station. Half wild with impatience and fear—not for her, by any means, certainly not; but for himself!—he returned to the beach.
As he did so he saw a gang of fishermen and sailors standing under the lee of a rock, and peering out to sea.
They did not hear him approach, and, in his noiseless fashion, he got close up to them and within hearing unnoticed.
"No boat could put out from the beach, man," said the old man with whom Margaret had spoken that morning. "We've tried it with the best of them, the Lass and the Speedwell, and it ain't no manner o' use. 'Sides, where's the good? the tide have swept over the rock an hour agone!"
"And you're sure you seed her?" asked a man.
"Do 'ee think I've gone silly all in a moment?" retorted the old fellow, pettishly. "I tell 'ee, I seed her on the top, half a-sitting and half a-lying. I did think as I'd get up and go to her, but I'd warned her in the morning, this very blessed morning; and the missus come and called me in to tea, and—and bla'-me if I didn't forget her."
"Oh, she's lost! She's drownded, as sure as a gun! Well, sakes a mercy, but it's a pity."
"We've all got to die," remarked a man philosophically; "and most on us dies by drownding; but then we're used to it, which makes all the difference."