The two men turn and resume their way. The torn skirts of the south-western pall of cloud are now almost overheard. They are hurrying on at a dizzy rate. Out far upon the water under the lowering cloud a dulness has crept. The great mirror of the sea has been breathed upon and sullied by the wind. In shore, the waves rise and fall tranquilly.
The squalls now become frequent. Although the solid mass of the water beneath is still unchanged, when the gusts fly across the waves and strike the cliffs the foam is blown upward, hissing, and bursts into smoke against the crags. From under the broadening cloud a faint whispering sound comes, thin and shrill like a broadened whisper of the wind in grass.
"Do you think the storm will last so long as twenty-four hours?"
"Impossible to say, sir. But I think there's that much due to us. Turn your back to it, sir."
They draw near the Black Rock. Each man keeps his body bent to windward ready to meet the next onslaught of the gale. Now only a few seconds pass between each gust. Each gust is stronger and longer than the former one. When they are within a few hundred yards of the rock, when they can plainly see the outline of the little bay in which it is wedged, the storm bursts fully upon them. One blast strikes them, and lasts a minute. They are obliged to stand still, leaning against the gale. A lull of a few seconds follows, and then the broad, mighty torrent of the wind bursts upon them in its uninterrupted fury, and for a while it seems as if they must be swept away by its persistent, tremendous force.
At length they turn round, and, holding on their sou'-westers, gaze into the face of the wind. The sea is now boiling, churning, but not yet roused. Foam spurts aloft, where, before, the dull blue waters rose and fell unbroken. The spray crawls further and further upward against the red-brown cliffs. The roar and tumult of the wind is pressing against them. The roar and tumult of the waters have not yet begun.
At that moment Phelan catches O'Brien by the arm, and points towards the Black Rock. The figure of a man is seen clearly against the sky-line. It gradually sinks from view. It is descending the path to the Black Rock below.
"Let us run," shouts Phelan. "It is certain death if he goes down."
They run at the top of their speed in their clumsy oilskins. They reach the cliff directly over the fatal rock. They look down, around, at one another. Both start back with cries of surprise and horror.
No one is to be seen.