With a swing and a swirl the waters rushed into their pool of peace; the foam sprang high, then fell, and crept up the rock, up, up. Now back, strongly, with a wrench that tugged at the streaming locks, scattering them loose, unrolling the kelp-ribbons to their utmost length. It was gone, and for an instant there was stillness again; then once more came the roar, the inward rush, the snowy column tossed aloft, the white seeking hands creeping up along the rock, till now all the water was a white churn of foam, all the air was filled with driving spray, and the reef thundered with wild artillery. The seas hove bodily over it, and broke only in the cove itself; the place where the children had paused and lingered in their upward climb now boiled like a pot, and even on the top of the great boulder the spray beat in their faces, stinging, burning. A black wing struck athwart the white smoke, and a raven floated past on the wind, one eye cast aside on the children. Isla cried out with glee, and shook her wet hair, and broke into a chant, such as she loved to croon to the wind; but Jacob was timid, and did not like the spray in his face, and, though he heard no sound, shivered at every vibration of the rock as the seas dashed themselves at it; he pulled his sister’s hand, and begged to be gone; so home they went over the mammoth’s back, and left the raven to his own. CHAPTER IV. THE SCARLET SORREL. AND now June was come, and Giles Heron still lived. He had watched passionately for the blossoming of the scarlet sorrel. “That’ll be my time!” he said, talking to himself as he lay rocking in his boat. “I’ve got to wait till then. Some person seems to hold me back from helping myself before then; maybe I’ve got to know what it’s like all along the line; maybe it’ll be some help to some one over yonder, and I hope it may, for it’s small comfort to me. Like as if my mother held me back. But, when the sorrel is red, I guess they’ll give me my pass; they’d be hard folks if they wouldn’t. And the sooner over for Mary and the children; poor Mary, she’ll burn right up and come along, too, most likely.” And now, at last, the sorrel was in bloom. It clothed the dark-gray rock like a holiday garment; it flamed in the sunlight; when the sky was overcast it took a darker shade. Certainly, it had the colour of blood; or was it still a little lighter? One morning Giles kissed his wife and children before he went down to the shore; he held Isla in his arms for a moment with a wistful look, as if he would have spoken; but at last he nodded, and went his usual way. Isla looked after him with a vague pain, she knew not what; but her mother gave a dreadful sob, pressed her hands together, and then flung them apart, with a gesture of almost savage anguish. Isla would have tried to comfort her, but the dumb woman would not meet her eyes, and turned away to her work, and worked all the morning as one works in a fever-dream.