Pinckney did not go in the same boat with Breeze and Miss Warfield;
and, landing, he spent the afternoon with others and saw nothing of
her. But after dinner was over, he spoke to her, inviting her to walk;
and she came, silently. A strange evening promenade that was: they took
a path close on the sheer brink of the cliffs, so narrow that one must
go behind the other. Pinckney had thought at first she might be
frightened, with the rough path, and the steepness of the rocks, and
the breakers churning at their base; but he saw that she was walking
erect and fearlessly. Finally she motioned him to let her go ahead; and
she led the way, choosing indiscriminately the straightest path,
whether on the verge of the sea or leading through green meadows. A few
colorless remarks were made by him, and then he saw the folly of it,
and they walked in silence. After nearly an hour, she stopped.

"We must be getting back," she said.

"Yes," said he, in the same tone; and they turned; she still leading
the way, while he followed silently. They were walking toward the
sunset; the sun was going down in a bank of dense gray cloud, but its
long, level rays came over to them, across a silent sea. She walked on
over the rugged cliff, like some siren, some genius of the place, with
a sure, proud grace of step; she never looked around, and his eyes were
fixed upon the black line of her figure, as it went before him, toward
the gray and blood-red sunset. It seemed to him this was the last hour
of his life; and even as he thought his ankle turned, and he stumbled
and fell, walking unwittingly into one of the chasms, where the line of
the cliff turned in. He grasped a knuckle of rock, and held his fall,
just on the brink of a ledge above the sea. Miss Warfield had turned
quickly and seen it all; and she leaned down over the brink, with one
hand around the rock and the other extended to help him, the ledge on
which he lay being some six feet below. Pinckney grasped her hand and
kissed it.

Her color did not change at this; but, with a strange strength in her
beautiful lithe figure, she drew him up steadily, he helping partly
with the other hand, until his knees rested on the path again. He stood
up with some difficulty, as his ankle was badly wrenched.

"I am afraid you can not walk," said she.

"Oh, yes," he answered; and took a few steps to show her. The pain was
great; but she walked on, and he followed, as best he could, limping.
She l