And the woman sprang back with horror, in the jaws of the death she feared.
For a moment she seemed to totter, and then with a piercing cry
Went over that awful headland that seems to touch the sky.
For a second no sound was uttered, only the billows roared,
While up from its nest a sea-gull, startled and shrieking, soared;
Then, shouting for help, Sir Rupert clutched at the snow-clad turf,
And glanced with a look of horror down at the boiling surf.
And as he lay there peering, right at the farthest edge,
Something his eyes detected—a heap on a narrow ledge;
It was thirty feet between them, but he knew ’twas his wretched wife,