“Yes, right down to the water.”
“Steeply?”
“Yes.”
“Could we climb down?”
“Yes, if we were flies: Mike, old chap, it’s just awful!”
“What!” cried Mike breathlessly.
“Yes: that’s it—awful,” said Vince quietly, as he rested his hands on the block he bestrode, and looked over to his left. “It slopes down; but the wrong way. It goes right in as far as I can see, and— Yes, it does just the same on the other side. If I were to go down now I should plump right into black water, that’s boiling up and racing along like it does where there’s a rocky bottom, I do wish you were here to see.”
“I don’t,” whispered Mike. “There—that’ll do,” he continued aloud. “Come up.”
“Wait a bit. I must see a little more, now I am here. I say, it’s awful!—it’s grand! The rocks, as far as I can see, are as smooth as can be, and all sorts of colours, just as if they were often breaking away. Some are dark and some are browny and lavender, and there’s one great patch, all glittering grey granite, looking as new as new.”
“Yes, it must be very beautiful; but come back.”