tall pillars issuing from the sea bore aloft a sort of cross-beam which
was like a bridge between them. This bridge, so singular in shape that
it was impossible to imagine what it was from a distance, touched each
of the two pillars. It resembled a vast portal. Of what use could such
an erection be in that open plain, the sea, which stretched around it
far and wide? It might have been imagined to be a Titanic Cromlech,
planted there in mid-ocean by an imperious whim, and built up by hands
accustomed to proportion their labours to the great deep. Its wild
outline stood well-defined against the clear sky.

The morning light was growing stronger in the east; the whiteness in the
horizon deepened the shadow on the sea. In the opposite sky the moon was
sinking.

The two perpendicular forms were the Douvres. The huge mass held fast
between them, like an architrave between two pillars, was the wreck of
the Durande.

The rock, thus holding fast and exhibiting its prey, was terrible to
behold. Inanimate things look sometimes as if endowed with a dark and
hostile spirit towards man. There was a menace in the attitude of the
rocks. They seemed to be biding their time.

Nothing could be more suggestive of haughtiness and arrogance than their
whole appearance: the conquered vessel; the triumphant abyss. The two
rocks, still streaming with the tempest of the day before, were like two
wrestlers sweating from a recent struggle. The wind had sunk; the sea
rippled gently; here and there the presence of breakers might be
detected in the graceful streaks of foam upon the surface of the waters.
A sound came from the sea like the murmuring of bees. All around was
level except the Douvres, rising straight, like two black columns. Up to
a certain height they were completely bearded with seaweed; above this
their steep haunches glittered at points like polished armour. They
seemed ready to commence the strife again. The beholder felt that they
were rooted deep in mountains whose summits were beneath the sea. Their
aspect was full of a sort of tragic power.

Ordinarily the sea conceals her crimes. She delights in privacy. Her
unfathomable deeps keep silence. She wraps herself in a mystery which
rarely consents to give up its secrets. We know her savage nature, but
who can tell the extent of her dark deeds? She is at once open and
secret; she hides away carefully, and cares not to divulge her actions;
wrecks a vessel, and, covering it with