Scarcely were the words out of her mouth when the mist passed away from them, and from all the seaward expanse of ocean. Not a wrack of it was left, and in its place the strong sea-breath beat upon their faces. Far in the west the angry disc of the sun was sinking into the foam. A great red ray shot from its bent edge and lay upon the awakened waters, like a path of fire. The ominous light fell full upon the little boat and full upon Beatrice’s lips. Then it passed on and lost itself in the deep mists which still swathed the coast. “Oh, how beautiful it is!” she cried, raising herself and pointing to the glory of the dying sun. “It is beautiful indeed!” he answered, but he looked, not at the sunset, but at the woman’s face before him, glowing like a saint’s in its golden aureole. For this also was most beautiful—so beautiful that it stirred him strangely. “It is like——” she began, and broke off suddenly. “What is it like?” he asked. “It is like finding truth at last,” she answered, speaking as much to herself as to him. “Why, one might make an allegory out of it. We wander in mist and darkness shaping a vague course for home. And then suddenly the mists are blown away, glory fills the air, and there is no more doubt, only before us is a splendour making all things clear and lighting us over a deathless sea. It sounds rather too grand,” she added, with a charming little laugh; “but there is something in it somewhere, if only I could express myself. Oh, look!” As she spoke a heavy storm-cloud rolled over the vanishing rim of the sun. For a moment the light struggled with the eclipsing cloud, turning its dull edge to the hue of copper, but the cloud was too strong and the light vanished, leaving the sea in darkness. “Well,” he said, “your allegory would have a dismal end if you worked it out. It is getting as dark as pitch, and there’s a good deal in _that_, if only _I_ could express myself.” Beatrice dropped poetry, and came down to facts in a way that was very commendable. “There is a squall coming up, Mr. Bingham,” she said; “you must paddle as hard as you can. I do not think we are more than two miles from Bryngelly, and if we are lucky we may get there before the weather breaks.” “Yes, _if_ we are lucky,” he said grimly, as he bent himself to the work. “But the question is where to paddle to—it’s so dark. Had not we better run for the shore?” “We are in the middle of the bay now,” she answered, “and almost as far from the nearest land as we are from Bryngelly, besides it is all rocks. No, you must go straight on. You will see the Poise light beyond Coed presently. You know Coed is four miles on the other side of Bryngelly, so when you see it head to the left.”