We thought we had seen everything, and come to an end, but at the hotel we found a party who had just returned from visiting some sea-caves beyond Tintagel, which they declared were "the finest things they had found in Cornwall."
It was a lovely calm day, and it was our last day. A few hours of it alone remained. Should we use them? We might never be here again. And, I think, the looser grows one's grasp of life, the greater is one's longing to make the most of it, to see all we can see of this wonderful, beautiful world. So, after a hasty meal, we found ourselves once more down at Porth Hern, seeking a boat and man—alas! not John Curgenven—under whose guidance we might brave the stormy deep.
It was indeed stormy! No sooner had we rounded the rock, than the baby waves of the tiny bay grew into hills and valleys, among which our boat went dancing up and down like a sea-gull!
"Ay, there's some sea on, there always is here, but we'll be through it presently," indifferently said the elder of the two boatmen; and plied his oars, as, I think, only these Cornish boatmen can do, talking all the while. He pointed out a slate quarry, only accessible from the sea, unless the workmen liked to be let down by ropes, which sometimes had to be done. We saw them moving about like black emmets among the clefts of the rocks, and heard plainly above the sound of the sea the click of their hammers. Strange, lonely, perilous work it must be, even in summer. In winter—
"Oh, they're used to it; we're all used to it," said our man, who was intelligent enough, though nothing equal to John Curgenven. "Many a time I've got sea-fowls' eggs on those rocks there," pointing to a cliff which did not seem to hold footing for a fly. "We all do it. The gentry buy them, and we're glad of the money. Dangerous?—yes, rather; but one must earn one's bread, and it's not so bad when you take to it young."
Nevertheless, I think I shall never look at a collection of sea-birds' eggs without a slight shudder, remembering those awful cliffs.
"Here you are, ladies, and the sea's down a bit, as I said. Hold on, mate, the boat will go right into the cave."
And before we knew what was happening, we found ourselves floated out of daylight into darkness—very dark it seemed at first—and rocking on a mass of heaving waters, shut in between two high walls, so narrow that it seemed as if every heave would dash us in pieces against them; while beyond was a dense blackness, from which one heard the beat of the everlasting waves against a sort of tunnel, a stormy sea-grave from which no one could ever hope to come out alive.
"I don't like this at all," said a small voice.
"Hadn't we better get out again?" practically suggested another.