The storm of last night had subsided, and the wind had shifted. A thaw had set in, and the sun was streaming over the melting snow. The blue sea was strewn with foam streaks. Though the wind had abated, the sea was still churning. The passion of the night could not abate at once; the pulses of the Atlantic were throbbing. The sight was magnificent. The billows that rolled upon the headland were at once shattered, and sent up columns of foam white as the snow upon the ground. Earlier, the morning sun had painted rainbows in the salt drift, but now the sun hung over the sea, and, if he painted them still, did so unseen by those on land. The whole coast was fringed with a deep border of fluttering white lace. The air was salt, and the lips of all who faced it became briny. Out at sea stood the Meachard, an islet of inaccessible black rock, capped with turf. On this no snow rested. The waves besieged the Meachard on all sides, like the rabble of Paris attacking the Bastille; they appeared to explode on touching the rock into volumes of white steam, that rushed up, whirling, and swept the crown. The reflection of the sun in the sea was shivered into countless, ever-changing flakes of fire. Over the surface of the water the gulls were fluttering in vast numbers—they seemed like sea foam vivified. This was the sea after the storm, already exhausted, and with relaxed power. What must it have been in the height of its rage, during the night? ’Where is the ship?’ asked Mirelle, looking in vain for a vessel on the uneasy surface. ’Look!’ old Genefer pointed. ’What, that? It is so small.’ ’There be men aboard, living and calling on God now, and in ten minutes they’ll be standing afore their Judge. They can look out of their eyes now, and see you up here on the cliff in your black gown, and in ten minutes their eyes will be full of salt water, and able to see nothing. They can cry aloud for mercy now, and in ten minutes the time of mercy will be over for each, and the time of retribution will be begun!’ Mirelle could hardly believe that the little cockleshell drifting on the rocks before her could contain men in jeopardy of their lives. It was but a cockleshell, a child’s ship made of a walnut. But there were men and women on the headland watching intently and with interest the fate of that petty boat, and an excise officer stood there with his telescope to his eye. ’She is the "Susanna" of Bristol,’ said he. ’Her’s never been in our harbour,’ observed a Boscastle man. ’I reckon there be about four aboard. Her be about the size to carry four.’ ’What be the lading, Pentecost?’ ’That don’t matter to you or I, Gerans,’ answered Pentecost. ’Times be altered when an honest man might profit by what the Lord sent us.’ ’It do seem a deadly shame that a man may not accept the good gifts Providence showers upon him, but the Government must interfere.’