Meanwhile the boat had been got round, and the men were rowing for Bryngelly as warm-hearted sailors will when life is at stake. They all knew Beatrice and loved her, and they remembered it as they rowed. The gloom was little hindrance to them for they could almost have navigated the coast blindfold. Besides here they were sheltered by the reef and shore. In five minutes they were round a little headland, and the lights of Bryngelly were close before them. On the beach people were moving about with lanterns. Presently they were there, hanging on their oars for a favourable wave to beach with. At last it came, and they gave way together, running the large boat half out of the surf. A dozen men plunged into the water and dragged her on. They were safe ashore. “Have you got Miss Beatrice?” shouted a voice. “Ay, we’ve got her and another too, but I doubt they’re gone. Where’s doctor?” “Here, here!” answered a voice. “Bring the stretchers.” A stout thick-set man, who had been listening, wrapped up in a dark cloak, turned his face away and uttered a groan. Then he followed the others as they went to work, not offering to help, but merely following. The stretchers were brought and the two bodies laid upon them, face downwards and covered over. “Where to?” said the bearers as they seized the poles. “The Vicarage,” answered the doctor. “I told them to get things ready there in case they should find her. Run forward one of you and say that we are coming.” The men started at a trot and the crowd ran after them. “Who is the other?” somebody asked. “Mr. Bingham—the tall lawyer who came down from London the other day. Tell policeman—run to his wife. She’s at Mrs. Jones’s, and thinks he has lost his way in the fog coming home from Bell Rock.” The policeman departed on his melancholy errand and the procession moved swiftly across the sandy beach and up the stone-paved way by which boats were dragged down the cliff to the sea. The village of Bryngelly lay to the right. It had grown away from the church, which stood dangerously near the edge of the cliff. On the further side of the church, and a little behind it, partly sheltered from the sea gales by a group of stunted firs, was the Vicarage, a low single-storied stone-roofed building, tenanted for twenty-five years past and more by Beatrice’s father, the Rev. Joseph Granger. The best approach to it from the Bryngelly side was by the churchyard, through which the men with the stretchers were now winding, followed by the crowd of sightseers. “Might as well leave them here at once,” said one of the bearers to the other in Welsh. “I doubt they are both dead enough.”