Could they but move silently! The grass was soft and new, and made no sound, but here and there lay dry leaves of last year, caught in the roots of the trees and held there against the blasts that sweep and tear through the winter; these crackled if one touched them; now and again a twig snapped, for the preacher’s dress, gather it close as she could about her, would sometimes float and catch as she passed. Up the huge crag they went, drawing their very breath in fear; and now, Joe, who reached the summit first, flung back his hand, half beckoning, half warning. The others crept nearer. The rock was crested with spruce and cedar; peering though the black fringes, they saw a tiny circle hollowed, carpeted with russet needles and velvet moss, with strawberry and twin-flower creeping together. Here Isla was sitting, braiding her long hair. A leaf, half full of wild strawberries, lay beside her, and with it the broken half of the shell bracelet. Her face was worn with pain, her eyes were dark and soft, with the look of many tears. The black trees bent over her, pressed round her, as if sheltering and protecting her. It was as if she had sought this little secret chamber of the wild rocks, sure of protection and solitude. Who should dare to speak to the island child? Was there some movement, some sigh? No one else heard it, but Isla suddenly caught her breath; started, turned. For an instant the eyes of the watchers caught hers, full of leaping terror; then, silently, she sprang through the screen of trees, and fled away across the rocks. They must follow her now, as best they might. Keeping out of sight whenever it was possible, the three sped in pursuit; but their hearts sank when they came out full on the further slope of the hill, and saw what lay before them. Some tremendous convulsion of Nature had in bygone ages struck and shattered this point of the island. There must have been shock upon shock, of awful force, to rear and twist and crush and rend the rocks into these fantastic nightmare shapes. They stretched thus for some distance, a silent tumult, a tempest turned to stone; then came the verge. Tower on tower, pinnacle on pinnacle, rising, rising. And, looking down, one sheer fall below another; at the foot, the surf leaping, dancing, tossing to and fro, flinging up white arms as if beckoning, entreating. And from crag to crag ran the wild girl, light as the springing foam itself, flitting now up, now down, but always onward, swift as a bird, never glancing behind her. Swift as a bird? What birds were these, that swept out from some hidden crevice of the rock, black as itself? They balanced on broad wings, hovered about the child’s head, as if greeting her; then, with hoarse cries, drove heavily forward, keeping near her as she ran.