"Nobody on earth. Guess it must have been the devil in hell, for it's a friend of his."
Her face grew pale and a nameless horror crept into her eyes.
"It ain't nice to look on now,—is it?"
"No!" I granted.
"You want to see it in the winter, when there's a storm tearing in, with the sea crashing over it in a white foam and,—and,—people trying to hang on to it. Oh!—I tell you what it is,—it's hellish, that's all. It's well named The Ghoul,—it's a robber of the dead."
"Robber of the dead!—what do you mean?"
"Everybody but a stranger knows:—it robs them of a decent burial. Heaps of men, and women too, have been wrecked out there, but only one was ever known to come off alive. Never a body has ever been found afterwards." She shivered and turned her head away.
For a while, I gazed at the horrible rock in fascination. What a reminder it was to the poor human that there is storm as well as calm; evil as well as good; that turmoil follows in the wake of quiet; that sorrow tumbles over joy; and savagery and death run riot among life and happiness and love!
At last, I also turned my eyes away from The Ghoul, with a strong feeling of anger and resentment toward it. Already I loathed and hated the thing as I hated nothing else.
I stood alongside the girl and we remained silent until the mood passed.