Chapter 8

SAFE AT LAST.

The night was long. The night was dark. Slowly the fog closed them in.
It grew rainier and more dismal. But on the summit of the crag Eustace
Le Neve stood aloft, and waved his arms, and shouted. He lit a match
and shaded it. The dull glare of it through the mist just faintly
reached the eyes of the anxious watchers on the beach below. From a
dozen lips there rose an answering shout. The pair on the crag half
heard its last echoes. Eustace put his hands to his mouth and cried
aloud once more, in stentorian tones, "All right. Cleer's here. We can
hold out till morning."

Trevennack alone heard the words. But he repeated them so instantly
that his wife felt sure it was true hearing, not insane hallucination.
The sea was gaining on them now. It had risen almost up to the face of
the cliffs. Reluctantly they turned along the path by the gully, and
mounting the precipice waited and watched till morning on the tor that
overlooks Michael's Crag from the Penmorgan headland.

Every now and again, through that livelong night, Trevennack whispered
in his wife's ear, "If only I chose to spread my wings, and launch
myself, I could fly across and carry her." And each time that brave
woman, holding his hand in her own and smoothing it gently, answered
in her soft voice, "But then the secret would be out, and Cleer's life
would be spoiled, and they'd call you a madman. Wait till morning,
dear Michael; do, do, wait till morning."

And Trevennack, struggling hard with the mad impulse in his heart,
replied with all his soul, "I will; I will; for Cleer's sake and
yours, I'll try to keep it down. I'll not be mad. I'll be strong and
restrain it."

For he knew he was insane, in his inmost soul, almost as well as he
knew his name was Michael the Archangel.

On the island, meanwhile, Eustace Le Neve and Cleer Trevennack sat
watching out the weary night, and longing for the dawn to make the way
back possible. At least, Cleer did, for as to Eustace, in spite of
rain and fog and cold and darkness, he was by no means insensible to
the unwonted pleasure of so long a tete-a-tete, in such romantic
circumstances, with the beautiful Cornish girl. To be sure the waves
roared, and the drizzle dripped, and the seabirds flapped all round
them. But many waters will not quench love. Cleer was by his side,
holding his hand in hers in the dark for pure company's sake, because
she was so frightened; and as the night wore on they talked at last of
many things. They were prisoners there for five mortal hours or so,
alone, together; and they might as well make the best of it by being
sociable with one another.

There could be no denying, however, that it was