e lonesome or more desolate, for never a sign of man was to be
seen upon them and save for a solitary curlew, whose sad note reached
Adrian's ears as it beat up wind from the sea, even the beasts and birds
that dwelt there had hidden themselves away. Only the voices of Nature
remained in all their majesty, the drear screams and moan of the rushing
wind, and above it, now low and now voluminous as the gale veered, the
deep and constant roar of the ocean.

Adrian reached the highest crest of the ridge, whence the sea, hidden
hitherto, became suddenly visible, a vast, slate-coloured expanse,
twisted here and there into heaps, hollowed here and there into valleys,
and broken everywhere with angry lines and areas of white. In such
trouble, for, after its own fashion, his heart was troubled, some
temperaments might have found a kind of consolation in this sight, for
while we witness them, at any rate, the throes and moods of Nature in
their greatness declare a mastery of our senses, and stun or hush to
silence the petty turmoil of our souls. This, at least, is so with those
who have eyes to read the lesson written on Nature's face, and ears
to hear the message which day by day she delivers with her lips; gifts
given only to such as hold the cypher-key of imagination, and pray for
grace to use it.

In Adrian's case, however, the weirdness of the sand-hills and the
grandeur of the seascape with the bitter wind that blew between and the
solitude which brooded over all, served only to exasperate nerves that
already were strained well nigh to breaking.

Why had his father brought him to this hideous swamp bordered by a
sailless sea? To save their lives from the fury of the mob? This he
understood, but there was more in it than that, some plot which he did
not understand, and which the ruffian, Hague Simon, and that she-fiend,
his companion, had gone away to execute. Meanwhile he must sit here day
after day playing cards with the wretch Ramiro, whom, for no fault of
his own, God had chosen out to be his parent. By the way, why was the
man so fond of playing cards? And what was the meaning of all that
nonsense about notes of hand? Yes, here he must sit, and for company he
had the sense of his unalterable shame, the memory of his mother's face
as she spurned and rejected him, the vision of the woman whom he loved
and had lost, and--the ghost of Dirk van Goorl.

He shivered as he thought of it; yes, his hair lifted and his lip
twi