She grasped his arm convulsively, and pointed at a part of the cliff, about a couple of hundred yards farther away from the town, where a figure could be seen cautiously climbing from ledge to ledge along the face of the stones, and in a position where a false step or a slip must have meant his falling a battered and bleeding mass upon the shingle beneath. There was a fascination in the scene that held them breathless, and as Cynthia's hand glided into his, and clung to him convulsively, Artingale felt the little palm grow wet and cold. It was a most daring proceeding, and such as none but the most reckless would have attempted; but the man seemed to be coolly climbing on, apparently without effort, though every here and there he had to cling to the face of the rock, and remain motionless, as if to gather breath. "By George!" exclaimed Artingale at last, as the man climbed nearer and nearer to where the grass was just visible on the topmost edge, "he's a plucky fellow, Cynthy. I wouldn't do that for a good deal." "But, Harry--don't you see--don't you see?" "Only that he is close to the top, dear. There, don't look if it makes you giddy. I'll tell you. He's close up now, and he has got hold of the grass and stuff. Now he's over the top edge. He's safe enough. And, yes--there, you can look up now. He's all right, and out of sight." "But, Harry, Harry," panted Cynthia, "didn't you see? It was that man." "What man?" "The man who follows poor Julie." "By Jove!" cried Artingale; and he started as if to try and follow the man up the cliff. "No, no," cried Cynthia, clinging to him; "don't leave me, Harry, don't try to climb that dreadful cliff; come and find poor Julie. Oh, Harry, why did we go away?" For answer, Artingale ground his teeth, and hurried his companion along until they were in front of the rock on which they had left Julia seated. Mass after mass lay singly here; and nearer to the cliff huge pieces were piled one upon the other in confusion just as they had fallen from time to time on splitting off from the face of the precipice. Helping his companion over some of the rough blocks, and threading his way amongst others, Artingale uttered a cry of satisfaction. "Here she is, Cynthy!" he exclaimed; and then he stopped short in alarm, so strange and haggard did Julia appear. She was seated upon a piece of rock at the foot of a large shelly mass, her cheek resting on the stone, and her hands pressed to her face. "Julie, dear Julie!" cried her sister, springing to her side; and as Julia heard her voice she slowly lowered her hands, and displayed a countenance alternately flushed and deadly pale, while her eyes looked wild and strange. "Has he gone?" she whispered, giving a frightened glance round. "Oh, Julie, tell me, has that man been here--has he dared to speak to you?" cried Cynthia, passionately.