Alixe failed to smile. This last augury, though it confirmed the one that she herself had made, did not please her. She sat silent on the ledge, her feet hanging, her elbows on her knees, her head on her hand, watching intently all the little dramas taking place below her among the sea-creatures. Nor was David in a mood to make conversation. So the two of them sat silent for a long time—how long a time neither of them knew. The water was growing more brightly golden under the beams of the fast-descending sun, and Alixe noted the fact, but held her peace. It was David who, after a little while, suddenly exclaimed,—
“Diable, Alixe! See how the tide hath risen! We shall be wet enough getting out and back to the upper cliff. Come quickly!” As he spoke, he slid from the ledge, landing in water that was up to his ankles. “Quickly, Alixe! I will steady thee. Come, thou’lt but be the wetter if thou stayest.”
Alixe sat motionless upon the ledge above, and looked calmly down upon the dwarf.
“Reflect, David, how easy it were not to wet my ankles thus. How easy ’twould be just to sit here—until the stone should drop for the last time into the hand of God.”
David stood looking up at her, wide-eyed. The idea was slow to pierce his brain. “Why, yes,” said he, “’twere easy enow, easy enow. Yet when I go, ’t must be from mine own room, and by a clean dagger-stroke. I care not to choke myself to death in a goblin’s cave. Come, Alixe, the water riseth.”
“Go thou on, David. I can come down when I will; for I have traversed the way often.”
“Come down!”
“Nay, David.”
“Come down.”
“Nay.”