e there. Upon this foundation of
water-logged timbers, branches and nondescript fragments, the flotsam
and jetsam of a Southern ocean, had been flung by high tides, and had
caught there one upon the other, until now the jagged summit was on a
level with the top of the sand cliff, though an open space, several feet
in width, lay between. Could it be that Garda had climbed up this
insecure heap, and then sprung across to the firm ground of Patricio
beyond? It seemed impossible; and yet, unless she had an enchanted
chariot to come at her call, she must have done so, for there was no
other way by which she could have escaped. Winthrop now essayed to
follow her. But it was not without difficulty that he succeeded in
reaching the top; for it was not so much a question of strength (of
which he had an abundance) as of lightness; it was not so much a
question of a good hold, as of no hold at all; the very place, he said
to himself, for feminine climbing, which is generally hap-hazard
clutches diversified by screams. At length, not without much fear of
bringing the whole pile toppling down upon himself, he reached the
summit, and from an insecure foothold looked across to the firm land.
Patricio at this point was covered, at a short distance back from the
edge, by a grove of wild-myrtle trees. There was no path, but the grove
was not dense, Garda could have passed through it anywhere; there was no
sign of her visible, but he could not see far. He sprang across, and
went inland through the myrtles, his course defined in a measure by the
thick chaparral which bordered the grove on each side. Suddenly he heard
the sound of voices, he pushed on, and came to a little open space,
thickly dotted with large bright flowers. On the farther side of this
space an easel had been set up, and a young man was at work sketching;
behind this young man, looking over his shoulder, stood Garda.

As Winthrop came out from the myrtles, "How long you have been!" she
said. Then, "Come and see this sketch," she went on immediately, her
eyes returning to the picture. "I've never seen anything so pretty in my
life."

As Winthrop, after a moment's survey of the scene, came towards her over
the flowers, "Oh," she said, "I forget that you don't know each other.
Mr. Winthrop, Mr. Lucian Spenser, civil engineer, from Washington, the
District of Columbia. Mr. Spenser, Mr. Evert Winthrop--he is nothing in
particular now, I believe--from the city of New York."