For answer, Artingale ground his teeth, and hurried his companion along until they were in front of the rock on which they had left Julia seated.
Mass after mass lay singly here; and nearer to the cliff huge pieces were piled one upon the other in confusion just as they had fallen from time to time on splitting off from the face of the precipice.
Helping his companion over some of the rough blocks, and threading his way amongst others, Artingale uttered a cry of satisfaction.
“Here she is, Cynthy!” he exclaimed; and then he stopped short in alarm, so strange and haggard did Julia appear.
She was seated upon a piece of rock at the foot of a large shelly mass, her cheek resting on the stone, and her hands pressed to her face.
“Julie, dear Julie!” cried her sister, springing to her side; and as Julia heard her voice she slowly lowered her hands, and displayed a countenance alternately flushed and deadly pale, while her eyes looked wild and strange.
“Has he gone?” she whispered, giving a frightened glance round.
“Oh, Julie, tell me, has that man been here—has he dared to speak to you?” cried Cynthia, passionately.
“Yes; he came directly you had gone. He was there, there,” she whispered, pointing towards the cliff. “Take me away: please take me away.”
Her words and looks were those of some frightened child, and on Artingale taking one of her hands she clung to him convulsively.