Graeme. "If that boat should be
waiting for us, somewhere down below, it would be too stupid for us to
be waiting for it up here," and he turned up his coat collar and
pulled his cap over his brows.

"You'll get soaked," said Margaret. "Please take this, it will help a
little," and she jumped up and thrust her golfing cloak into his
hands. He seemed about to refuse, then thanked her hastily, and threw
it over his shoulders and went out.

The wind caught him and whirled him along towards Beleme cliffs. He
tacked to the south and made a slant for the place where they had
landed. As soon as he was out of sight of the house he drew the hood
of the cloak over his head and rejoiced in it.

To be wearing her cloak brought Margaret appreciably nearer. Possibly
that hood had even been over her head, had touched her shining hair,
her fair soft cheek. He pressed it to his face, to his lips, and the
hot blood danced in his veins at his temerity. The gale bellowed
outside and drove him staggering, but inside the hood was the
uplifting warmth and glow of personal contact with the beloved. Her
very mantle was sacred to him. He fancied he could detect in it a
subtle intimation of herself. He hugged it close, and leaned back upon
the gale, and drifted towards the southern cliffs.

One glance at the black rocks below,--now hidden by the rushing fury
of the surges, now outstanding gaunt and grim, with creamy cascades
pouring back into the roaring welter below,--showed him how impossible
it would have been for any boat to approach there.

He plunged on through the masses of dripping ragwort towards the
eastern cliff, and stood absorbed by the grim fury of the Gouliot
Race. The driven waves split on the western point of Brecqhou and came
rocketing along the ragged black rocks on either side in wild bursts
of foam. The Gouliot Passage was roaring with the noise of many
waters, and boiling and seething like a gigantic pot. The sea was
white with beaten spume for half a mile each way, and up through the
tumbling marbled surface great black coils of water came writhing and
bubbling from their tribulation on the hidden rocks below. The black
fangs of the Gouliots were grimmer than ever. The long line of scoured
granite cliffs on either side looked like great bald-headed eagles
peering out hungrily for their prey.

There were no boats at the anchorage in Havre Gosselin. He learned
afterwards that they had all run to the shelter of Creux Ha