Michaels Crag | Page 5

Cliffs, sea, and rocks all blended
with one another in solemn harmony. Even the blackness of the great
crags and the scorched air of the brown and water-logged moorland in
the rear now ceased to oppress him. They fell into their proper place in
one consistent and well-blended picture. But, after awhile, impelled by
a desire to look down upon the next little bay beyond--for the coast is
indented with endless coves and headlands--the engineer walked on
along the top by a coastguard's path that threaded its way, marked by
whitened stones, round the points and gullies. As he did so, he
happened to notice on the very crest of the ridge that overlooked the
rock they called St. Michael's Crag a tall figure of a man silhouetted in
dark outline against the pale gray skyline. From the very first moment

Eustace Le Neve set eyes upon that striking figure this man exerted
upon him some nameless attraction. Even at this distance the engineer
could see he had a certain indefinite air of dignity and distinction; and
he poised himself lightly on the very edge of the cliff in a way that
would no doubt have made Walter Tyrrel shudder with fear and alarm.
Yet there was something about that poise quite unearthly and uncanny;
the man stood so airily on his high rocky perch that he reminded Le
Neve at once of nothing so much as of Giovanni da Bologna's Mercury
in the Bargello at Florence; he seemed to spurn the earth as if about to
spring from it with a bound; his feet were as if freed from the common
bond of gravity.
It was a figure that belonged naturally to the Cornish moorland.
Le Neve advanced along the path till he nearly reached the summit
where the man was standing. The point itself was a rugged tor, or little
group of bare and weather-worn rocks, overlooking the sea and St.
Michael's Crag below it. As the engineer drew near he saw the stranger
was not alone. Under shelter of the rocks a girl lay stretched at length
on a loose camel's-hair rug; her head was hatless; in her hand she held,
half open, a volume of poetry. She looked up as Eustace passed, and he
noted at a glance that she was dark and pretty. The Cornish type once
more; bright black eyes, glossy brown hair, a rich complexion, a soft
and rounded beauty.
"Cleer," the father said, warningly, in a modulated voice, as the young
man approached, "don't let your hat blow away, dear; it's close by the
path there."
The girl he called Cleer darted forward and picked it up, with a little
blush of confusion. Eustace Le Neve raised his hat, by way of excuse
for disturbing her, and was about to pass on, but the view down into the
bay below, with the jagged and pointed crag islanded in white foam,
held him spellbound for a moment. He paused and gazed at it. "This is
a lovely lookout, sir," he said, after a second's silence, as if to apologize
for his intrusion, turning round to the stranger, who still stood poised
like a statue on the natural pedestal of lichen- covered rock beside him.
"A lovely lookout and a wonderful bit of wild coast scenery."

"Yes," the stranger answered, in a voice as full of dignity as his
presence and his mien. "It's the grandest spot along the Cornish coast.
From here you can see in one view St. Michael's Mount, St. Michael's
Crag, St. Michael's Church, and St. Michael's Promontory. The whole
of this country, indeed, just teems with St. Michael."
"Which is St. Michael's Promontory?" the young man asked, with a
side glance at Cleer, as they called the daughter. He wasn't sorry indeed
for the chance of having a second look at her.
"Why Land's End, of course," the dignified stranger answered at once,
descending from his perch as he spoke, with a light spring more like a
boy's than a mature man's. "You must surely know those famous lines
in 'Lycidas' about 'The fable of Bellerus old, Where the Great Vision of
the guarded mount Looks towards Namancos and Bayona's hold; Look
homeward, angel, now, and melt with ruth.'"
"Yes, I KNOW them, of course," Eustace answered with ingenuous
shyness; "but as so often happens with poetry, to say the truth, I'm
afraid I attached no very definite idea to them. The music so easily
obscures the sense; though the moment you suggest it, I see they can't
possibly mean anyone but St. Michael."
"My father's very much interested in the antiquities of Cornwall," the
girl Cleer put in, looking up at him somewhat timidly; "so he naturally
knows all these things, and perhaps he expects others to know them
unreasonably."