Seated on a rock with their backs towards us were a man and a woman. The man was dressed in goatskins, and his whiskers, so I inferred from what I could see of them from the side, were at least as exuberant as mine. The woman was in white fur with a fillet of seaweed round her head. They were sitting close together as if in earnest colloquy.
"Cave people," whispered Edith, "aborigines of the island."
But I answered nothing. Something in the tall outline of the seated woman held my eye. A cruel presentiment stabbed me to the heart.
In my agitation my foot overset a stone, which rolled noisily down the rocks. The noise attracted the attention of the two seated below us. They turned and looked searchingly towards the place where we were concealed. Their faces were in plain sight. As I looked at that of the woman I felt my heart cease beating and the colour leave my face.
I looked into Edith's face. It was as pale as mine.
"What does it mean?" she whispered.
"Miss Croyden," I answered, "Edith—it means this. I have never found the courage to tell you. I am a married man. The woman seated there is my wife. And I love you."
Edith put out her arms with a low cry and clasped me about the neck. "Harold," she murmured, "my Harold."
"Have I done wrong?" I whispered.
"Only what I have done too," she answered. "I, too, am married, Harold, and the man sitting there below, John Croyden, is my husband."