"Never mind; what's the odds so long as we can set their minds at rest," bawled Claud in return.
"Naught comes to no harm—the young imp is all right enough," howled Henry; and then, having strained their vocal chords to the utmost, any further attempt at conversation was given up as impossible.
They passed the narrow gorge where the mouth of the quarries lay and where the limekilns cast a weird gloom upon the night. The streaming rain hissed and fizzed as it fell upon the glowing surface, and, altogether, Claud thought, the whole scene was something like the last act of the Walküre—he almost felt as if he could hear the passionate shiver of Wagnerian violins in the rush of the mighty tempest.
In the low, sheltered road, they could just manage to keep their feet. Every now and then they paused, and shouted Godfrey's name at the utmost pitch of their voices; but they heard no response; and at last staggered down the little stony high street of Brent, without having met a single soul.
Usually the narrow street was musical with the murmur of the stream that flowed down its midst. To-night the storm-fiend overpowered all such gentle sounds. Claud, blindly stumbling in the dark, managed to go over his ankles in running water, but quickly regained his footing, and was right glad when the lights of the "Welcome, Traveller," streamed out upon the gloom.
They swung open the door. The bar was deserted, and Mr. Fowler's call only brought a female servant from the kitchen. Every soul in the town, she told them, was down at the quay—the word to haul up the boats had been cried through the village at dusk, and now the gale had come, and the fishing smacks had not come in.
Claud remembered how they had sat on the cliff black berrying only two days before, and watched the fishermen start, how the boats with their graceful red brown sails had danced and dipped on the sparkling blue water, alive with diamond reflections of the broad sun.
And now—the cruel, crawling foam, the black abyss of howling destruction, and the frantic wives assembled on the quay, watching "for those who will never come back to the town."
The inn servant was positive that Master Brabourne had not been in Brent that afternoon or evening, but Mr. Fowler, not quite relying on the accuracy of her statement, determined to make his way down to the shore.
The village was congested with excitement, as they approached they could dimly descry a dark crowd and tossing lanterns, and could hear the terrific thunder of the billows as they burst upon the beach. Then, suddenly, as they hurried on, up through the murky night rushed a rocket, a streak of vivid light, that struck on the heart like the cry of a human voice for help. Another—another—it was clear that some frantic feeling agitated the swaying crowd. As Claud dashed forward, he uttered a short exclamation.