"I don't know quite," said Artingale, shortly. "Let's find him first. Here, look here, Magnus, those are the stones! No, no, those--the grey blocks; and that is where the blackguard got up. By George, however did he manage it? The place is enough to make one shudder--Eh? What?" Magnus had laid his hand upon his friend's shoulder, and was pointing to where, about fifty yards away, a figure was lying, apparently asleep on the short turf, not ten yards from the edge of the cliff; and in an instant Artingale had sprung forward, recognising as he did the man of whom they were in search. PART TWO, CHAPTER FOUR. LET SLEEPING DOGS LIE. The two young men had no thought of the consequences that might ensue, as they hurried over the short elastic turf towards where, almost a giant among his kind, Jock Morrison lay prone upon his broad back, his powerful arms crossed upon his chest, and his battered old soft felt hat drawn over his face to shade it from the sun--rather a work of supererogation, for the god of day would have had to work hard to tan it of a richer brown. Artingale was first, but Magnus was close behind, and as they saw the man before them who had caused so much annoyance to, and so insulted those they loved, the feeling of indignation in their breasts bubbled up rapidly, and overflowed in hot passion before which that better part of valour known as discretion was swept away. Artingale looked upon the great fellow as something to be soundly thrashed, but Magnus, in spite of his weakness, seemed as if his rage had regularly mastered him. He saw in those brief instants, degrading as was the idea, a rival as well as an enemy, and panting and excited he strove to be there first, so as to seize the fellow by the throat, his weakness and suffering from his late illness being forgotten in the one stern desire to grapple with this man, and look at him face to face. But Artingale was there first, and shouted to the fellow to get up, but without eliciting any reply. "Do you hear? Get up!" cried Artingale. Still the man did not stir, but Magnus noted a slight motion of the hairs of his thick beard, as if his lips had twitched slightly. In other respects he was motionless, his arms folded across the deep chest and the cap over his face. "He's not asleep, he's shamming," cried Artingale angrily; and bending down he snatched the hat from the fellow's face and sent it skimming over the cliff, revealing a pair of fierce dark eyes glaring at him like those of some wild beast. "Now then, young gentlemen! what's the matter?" came now in a deep voice like a growl. "You scoundrel!" began Magnus, but he had over-rated his strength. His illness had told upon him terribly, and he could neither speak, move, nor act, but pale and haggard stood there holding his hand pressed upon his breast. "Who are you calling names?" said the fellow fiercely. "Leave him to me," cried Artingale. "I'll talk to him."