"But, my dear good souls, I am as good a swimmer as any in England, and as active as a cat. Pray, don't mind me."
"You keep hold of we and run, sir," said one of the young men, "that's all you're a'got to do, sir."
"I shall most certainly run," said Marston, laughing, "but I decline drowning any one but myself—"
Charles said at this moment, "Do come here and look at this."
It was worth looking at, indeed. They were about a mile from shore, floating about anyhow on an oily smooth sea; for the tide had changed, and they were making no headway. Before them one of the noblest headlands on the coast, an abrupt cone of slate, nigh a thousand feet high, covered almost entirely with grass, sloped suddenly into the water; and in advance of it, but slightly on one side, a rugged mound of black rock, nearly six hundred feet, stood out into the sea, and contrasted its horrid jagged lines with the smooth green of the peak behind. Round its base, dividing it from the glossy sea, ran a delicate line of silver—the surf caused by the ground-swell; and in front the whole promontory was dimly mirrored in the quietly heaving ocean.
"What a noble headland," said Marston; "is that grass on the further peak too steep to walk upon?"
"There's some one a'walking on it now," said old Evans. "There's a woman a'walking on it."
None could see it but he, except Matthews, who said he couldn't tell if it was a sheep or no.
Charles got out his glass, and the old man was right. A woman was walking rapidly along the peak, about the third of the way down.
"What a curious place for a woman to be in!" he remarked. "It is almost terrible to look at."