nter, and he now stepped
out on to the landing-stage. Sara prepared to follow him. For a moment
she stood poised with one foot on the gunwale of the boat, then, as
an incoming wave drove the little skiff suddenly against the wooden
supports of the jetty, she staggered, lost her balance, and toppled
helplessly backward.

But even as she fell, Garth's arms closed round her like steel bars,
and she felt herself lifted clean up from the rocking boat on to the
landing-stage. For an instant she knew that she rested a dead weight
against his breast; then he placed her very gently on her feet.

"All right?" he queried, steadying her with his hand beneath her arm.
"That was a near shave."

His queer hazel eyes were curiously bright, and Sara, meeting their
gaze, felt her face flame scarlet.

"Quite, thanks," she said a little breathlessly, adding: "You must be
very strong."

She moved her arm as though trying to free it from his clasp, and he
released it instantly. But his face was rather white as he knelt down to
lift out the tea-basket, and he, too, was breathing quickly.

Somewhat silently they made their way up the sandy slope that stretched
ahead of them, and presently, as they mounted the last rise, the
malignant, distorted face beneath the Devil's Hood leaped into view,
granite-grey and menacing against the young blue of the April sky.

"What a perfectly horrible head!" exclaimed Sara, gazing at it aghast.
"It's like a nightmare of some kind."

"Yes, it's not pretty," admitted Garth. "The mouth has a sort of
malevolent leer, hasn't it?"

"It has, indeed. One can hardly believe that it is just a natural
formation."

"It's always a hotly debated point whether the devil and his hood are
purely the work of nature or not. My own impression is that to a certain
extent they are, but that someone--centuries ago--being struck by the
resemblance of the rock to a human face, added a few touches to complete
the picture."

"Well, whoever did it must have had a bizarre imagination to perpetuate
such a thing."

"The handiwork--if handiwork it is--is attributed to Friar Anselmo--the
Spanish monk who broke his vows and escaped to Monkshaven, you know."

Sara looked interested.

"No, I don't know," she said. "Tell me about him. He sounds quite
exciting."

"You don't meant to say no one has enlightened you as to the gentleman
whose exploit gave the town its name of Monkshaven?"

"No. I'm afraid my education as far as l