in' into these things, to
see if they were true. Now, lads, _if_ these things that so many
millions believe in, and that _you_ all profess to believe in, are lies,
then you may well laugh at me for enquirin' into them; but if they be
true, why, I think the devils themselves must be laughing at _you_ for
_not_ enquirin' into them!"

Of course, Forsyth found among such a number of intelligent men, some
who could argue with him, as well as some who could laugh at him. He
also found one or two who sympathised openly, while there were a few who
agreed in their hearts, although they did not speak.

Well, it was this tendency to study on the part of Forsyth, that led him
to cross the wooden bridge between the beacon and the lighthouse during
his leisure hours, and sit reading at the top of the spiral stair, near
one of the windows of the lowest room.

Forsyth was sitting at his usual window one afternoon at the end of a
storm. It was a comfortless place, for neither sashes nor glass had at
that time been put in, and the wind howled up and down the shaft
dreadfully. The man was robust, however, and did not mind that.

The height of the building was at that time fully eighty feet. While he
was reading there a tremendous breaker struck the lighthouse with such
force that it trembled distinctly. Forsyth started up, for he had never
felt this before, and fancied the structure was about to fall. For a
moment or two he remained paralysed, for he heard the most terrible and
inexplicable sounds going on overhead. In fact, the wave that shook the
building had sent a huge volume of spray right over the top, part of
which fell into the lighthouse, and what poor Forsyth heard was about a
ton of water coming down through storey after storey, carrying lime,
mortar, buckets, trowels, and a host of other things, violently along
with it.

To plunge down the spiral stair, almost headforemost, was the work of a
few seconds. Forsyth accompanied the descent with a yell of terror,
which reached the ears of his comrades in the beacon, and brought them
to the door, just in time to see their comrade's long legs carry him
across the bridge in two bounds. Almost at the same instant the water
and rubbish burst out of the doorway of the lighthouse, and flooded the
bridge.

But let us return from this digression, or rather, this series of
digressions, to the point where we branched off: the aspect of the
beacon in the fog, and the calm of t