rely, the evidence afforded by the scroll that my father's tomb had
been violated. She recalled my seeing the parchment and being thrown
thereby into a state of the greatest mental agony. She recalled my
taking her hand as we neared the new tongue of land made by the
_debris_, and peering round it as though in dread of some concealed
foe, but evidently she had no idea of _what_ was behind there. She
described the way in which my 'foot slipped on the sand,' and how I
was thrown back upon her as she stood waiting to pass the _debris_
herself. She spoke of my unaccountable and apparently mad suggestion
that we should, although the tide was coming in, and we were already
in danger of being imprisoned in the cove and drowned, sit down on
the boulder made sacred to us both by our childish betrothal. She
spoke of her own suspicion, and then her conviction, that some great
calamity was threatening me on account of the violation of the tomb,
and that the knowledge of this was governing all these strange
movements of mine. She reminded me of my telling her that the shriek
we both heard at the moment when the cliff fell was connected with
the crime against my father, and that it was the call from the grave
which, according to wild traditions, will sometimes come to the heir
of an old family. She recalled the very words I used when I told her
that in answer to this call I intended to remain there until the tide
came in and drowned me. She dwelt upon the way in which I urged her
to go and leave me, her own resolution to die with me, and her
cutting up her shawl into a rope and tying herself to me. She
recalled the sudden thunderous noise of the settlement in response
to the tide, and my springing up and running to the mass of _debris_
and looking round it, and then my calling her to join me; and finally
she described her running toward Needle Point in order to pass round
it before the tide should get any higher, her plunging into the sea
and my pulling her round the Point.

It was manifest, from the first word she uttered to the last, that
she had no idea who was the 'miscreant,' to use her oft-repeated
word, who committed the sacrilege; and nothing could express what
relief this gave my heart. I felt as though I had just escaped from
some peril too dire to think of with calmness.

'You remember, Henry,' said she, 'how we ran to the cottage in our
wet clothes. You remember how we parted at the cottage door. From
that night till no