At noon next day they started--Helen, her father, and Harold Jerningham--attended by a couple of rowers, in a roomy boat. Helen would have infinitely preferred to be alone with her father, but she could not advance any objection to Mr. Jerningham’s companionship, and was indeed grateful to him for not opposing her wish. She walked by her father in silence, with her hand clinging to his arm, and her eyes lifted every now and then to the steep cliffs above them, unsurmountable, eternal barrier, between the sands and the heights above. The day was bright and clear, and the April sunlight shone upon a tranquil sea. Darkness and rain, storm and wind, had overtaken that missing traveller--against him the very elements had conspired. The little party went slowly along the sands, with the boat always in sight. Little satisfaction could there be in that melancholy survey. The cliffs and the shore told nothing of him who had perished amidst their awful solitude. At what spot the rising wall of waters had overtaken him, no one could tell. Midway between Killalochie and Halko’s Head they came to the inlet, or cleft in the cliffs, a narrow passage or chasm, between steep walls of crag, about a quarter of a mile in length. Here the walking was difficult, and Harold Jerningham endeavoured to dissuade Helen from exploring the place. “Mr. Mayfield and I went down there with our lanterns,” he said. “Believe me, there has been no trace, not the faintest indication overlooked. The ground is so thickly scattered with sharp craggy stones as to be almost impassable.” In spite of this, Helen persisted, with a quiet resolution, which impressed Mr. Jerningham. This pure, country-bred girl was even more admirable than he had thought her. The calm, still face, so fixed and yet so gentle, assumed a new beauty in his eyes. “The good blood shows itself,” he thought. They all three went into the chasm. Only in the red fitful glare of the lanterns had Mr. Jerningham seen it before. It had seemed to him then more vast, more awful; but even by day the depth and solitude of the place had a gloomy solemnity. Very carefully had the searchers, with their lanterns, examined every angle and recess of the cliff on either side, every inch of the stony ground, looking for some trace of the lost, and had found nothing. To-day Mr. Jerningham walked listlessly, scarce looking to the right or the left, hoping nothing, fearing nothing. M. de Bergerac’s thoughts were absorbed by his daughter. It was her face he watched, her grief he feared. Thus was it left to the eyes of that one mourner to catch the first sign of hope. A loud cry burst from her lips, a cry that thrilled the hearts of her companions. “Helen, my love, what is it?” exclaimed her father, clasping her tightly in his arms. She broke from him, and pointed upwards. “Look!” she cried, “look! There is some one there. He is there! Alive or dead, he is found!”