ome out of the sea
and beckon to her. The summons was one she dare not disobey. She left her
bed, crept downstairs in the darkness, out to the edge of the cliff, and
looked down. The face of the Moon Rock was watching her intently. She
thought it called her name.

Ah, what was that cry? She came to her senses, startled, and looked
fearfully round her. She was alone on the cliffs, above the Moon Rock, and
she could hear the sea hissing at its base. But what else had she heard?
Had somebody called her name? It was still very dark. To the south the
light of the Lizard stabbed the black sky with a white flaming finger as
if seeking to pierce the darkness of eternity. Nearer, the red light of
the Wolf rock gleamed--a warning to passing souls flying southward from
England to eternal bliss to fly high above the rock where the spirit dog
lay howling in wait. Had the cry come from there?

"Sisily! Sisily!"

No. It was not the howl of the Wolf dog that she had heard. That was her
own name. She crept closer to the edge of the cliff and looked down into
the sea--down at the Moon Rock. The old Cornish legend of the drowned love
came back to her. Was Charles dead? and calling her to him? She would go
to him gladly. She had loved him in life, and if he wanted her in death
she would go to him.

She clutched a broken spur of rock on the brink and looked down to where
the sea bored round the black sides of the Moon Rock. She could see her
own pool too, lying peaceful and calm in the encircling arm of the rock.
In her delirium she struggled to her feet and started to climb down the
face of the cliff.

CHAPTER XXXII

The wind tapped angrily at the windows of Flint House, the rain fell
stealthily, the sea made a droning uneasy sound. The fire which burnt on
the kitchen hearth was a poor one, a sullen thing of green boughs and coal
which refused to harmonize, but spluttered and fizzed angrily. The coal
smouldered blackly, but sometimes cracked with a startling report. When
this happened, a crooked bough sticking up in the middle of the fire, like
a curved fang, would jump out on to the hearthstone as though frightened
by the noise.

Thalassa sat on one side of the fire, his wife on the other. Her eyes were
rapt and vacant; he sat with frowning brows, deep in thought. Robert
Turold's dog crouched in the circle of the glow with amber eyes fixed on
the old man's face as if he were a god, and Thalassa lived up to one of
the attr