She sat down to rest and watch.
At any moment he might appear in the distance. From where she sat the sea lay straight before her and the far off islands, to the left the rock strewn coast, to the right the great curving beach.
Behind her the country stormed away, stern, grey-grim and treeless, to the foothills whose misty mauve lay stretched before the mountains.
Every now and then she would turn towards the left searching the country and cliffs with her eyes, but no form appeared.
She remembered now that he had talked about sea birds’ eggs and how to get them. Might he have gone hunting for eggs over those cliffs and fallen?
She remembered also when the two men had come back from their expedition inland they had brought an alarming story of a bog like a quick sand. La Touche had blundered into it and he would have gone down only for his companion. They had also said something about pot holes like shafts in the basalt. She turned her mind away from these thoughts and passing her fingers through her hair removed the comb which held it in a rough knot, shaking it free to the sun and wind. She combed it with her fingers and rearranged it and then looked again—nothing.
It came to her suddenly that though she were to sit there forever the vigil would be useless, that Bompard had gone—never to return.
She reasoned with this feeling, and reason only increased her fears. It was now noon, Bompard was not the man to go on a long expedition by himself; he was too inactive and easy-going. No, something had happened to him and he might at that moment be lying dead at the foot of some cliff or he might have broken a leg and be lying at the foot of some rock unable to move.
She rose up and came swiftly down to the beach. Reaching the caves she found La Touche opening a tin. It was dinner-time.
“What has become of Bompard?” she asked. “Have you seen him since he went off this morning over those rocks?”