“Yes, to be sure, at the Falaise; there is not another spot to land on for miles along the coast.”
The old sailor then began a circumstantial account of the arrival of George and his accomplices from England; and told how they had one by one scaled the cliffs by means of a cord, well known in these parts, called the “smuggler's rope.” “Thou shalt see the spot now,” added he, “for there's the signal yonder.”
He pointed as he spoke to an old ruined tower, which crowned a cliff about half a mile distant, and from a loophole in which I could see a branch of ivy waving, as though moved by the wind.
“And what may that mean?”
“The cutter is in sight; as the wind is off shore, she 'll be able to come in close to-night. Indeed, if it blew from the westward, she dared not venture nearer, nor thou, either, go down to meet her. So, now let's be moving.”
About twenty minutes' walking brought us to the old signal-tower, on looking from the window of which I beheld the sea plashing full three hundred feet beneath. The dark rocks, fissured by time and weather, were abrupt as a wall, and in some places even overhung the waves that rolled heavily below. Masses of tangled seaweed and shells, which lay in the crevices of the cliffs, showed where in times of storm the wild waters were thrown; while lower down, amid fragments of rocks, the heavy beams and planks of shipwrecked vessels surged with every motion of the tide.
“You cannot see the cutter now,” said the old sailor,—“the setting sun leaves a haze over the sea; but in a few minutes more we shall see her.”
“I am rather looking for the pathway down this bold cliff,” replied I, as I strained my eyes to catch something like a way to descend by.
“Then throw thine eyes in this direction,” said the sailor, as he pointed straight down beneath the window of the tower. “Seest thou that chain there? Well, follow it a little farther, and thou may'st mark a piece of timber jutting from the rock.”
“Yes, I see it plainly.”