"The old watch-tower."
"But how—" Then she noticed that his hands, long, brown and well-formed, were cut and bruised; bore many jagged marks as from a fierce struggle. "How did you hurt your hands?"
He thrust them into his pockets.
"Was it from the rocks—and the waves? How did I get here?"
"Oh, I was standing on the cliff," he answered carelessly, "and—saw your horse running away!"
"You did? And then—came down?"
"What else was there to do?" he said simply.
Her gaze returned to the fire. "But the tide was rushing in—rushing! it was right upon me!"
