Life was ebbing very low for Giles. Slowly, slowly, he crawled down to the beach; it was only a few paces from the cabin, but a corner, rounded, took him out of sight, and he had of late sternly forbidden the children to come with him even as far as the corner. Till he passed it he made some poor pretence of holding his head up, and walking straight; but, once round that friendly rock, he could cling to it, and drag his tired body along, and make no one wince but himself. The boat was ready; good old boat! she would miss him, he thought. He fell across the thwart, and lay there dozing for a time; then crept to a sitting posture, and, with short, faltering strokes, pulled himself across to Toluma. The distance was small, but once there he must lie down again in the boat, at the foot of the towering cliff, and wait painfully till the faint breath should come back to him. One last effort, now, and then—rest! Could he do it? Had he rowed so far, miles and miles, for nothing? His slight, worn body seemed a mass of lead, his hands and feet were turned to water, as he climbed up, wearily, wearily. Many times he paused, clutching the naked stone, while he struggled for breath, racked by the terrible cough. Once his grasp loosened, and he had almost fallen, and felt already the shock on the reef below; but something drifted through his mind—a saying of his father’s, was it? “Hold on, Heron! a good bird and a rare un!” His muscles crisped again, the mist lifted a little from his eyes, and he climbed on; till now the top was reached, and the scarlet upland which his eyes had sought so yearningly these many weeks. With a long, sighing breath the tired man laid himself at full length on the glowing sod. He felt life go from him with that breath; the rest was mere detail. He lay still, looking now across at the main island, now down and around him. A few paces away the rock broke sheer off, two hundred feet down to the water, that danced and dimpled in the sun. Between the highest crest of the rock and the sorrel-meadow where he lay was a tiny hollow brimming over with white violets, the scentless kind that blossom as late as June here. Heron looked at them and smiled, as bits of a nursery tale came back to the confusion of his mind. “White as snow, red as blood,—what a pity the ravens never come over here! The rock is all gray and orange, no black.” He dozed a little; then repeated drowsily, “Red as blood! only blood is a little darker, I think. Maybe ’t has faded out, all these years. Anyway, I shall be able to see.” The light seemed dim, though he felt the sun striking fiercely on his head and shoulders. He pulled the scarlet sorrel blossoms, and let a stream of them run slowly through his hand. Yes, darker, surely.