"The sand slides on the face of the cliff; you must be careful," she said.
"And I may see one of those rare cliff butterflies. I haven't any good examples."
I fancy she was not listening; the crows were clamouring above the beech woods; the hill winds filled our ears with a sound like the sound of the sea on shoals. Her gray eyes, touched with the sky's deep blue and the blue of the misty hills, looked out across the miles of woods and fields, and saw a world; not a world old, scarred, rock-ribbed, and salt with tears, but a new world, youthful, ripe, sunny, hazy with the splendour of wonders hidden behind the horizon—a world jewelled with gems, spanned by rose-mist rainbows—a world of sixteen years.
"We are already at the cliff's edge," I said.
She stepped to the edge and looked over. I drew her back. The sand started among the rocks, running, running with a sound like silver water.
"Then you shall not go either," she said. "I do not care for marigolds."
But I was already on the edge, stooping for a blossom. The next instant I fell.
There was a whistle of sand, a flurry and a rush of wind, a blur of rock, fern, dead grasses—a cry!
For I remember as I fell, falling I called, "Sweetheart!" and again "Sweetheart!" Then my body struck the rocks below.