Picking these up, he went to the edge of the cliff. The sea was restlessly seething and surging among the rocks, each ripple and wave rolling like molten silver to the iron-bound coast. Every crevice and rock stood out sharp and clear in the brilliant moonlight, only marking in blacker contrast the hideous gloom of the yawning chasm at his side. He could see no path, yet the men must have gone down that way, or else he would have seen them had they ventured to clamber down the precipice in front. He stood up and looked round--the light had disappeared. Had they told him the truth about that light? Was it the Hermitage of St Catherine’s? But there was none to ask, and he felt as bewildered as ever, nay, more so, for he had utterly lost his bearings. And then he thought of his lord’s command, and of the urgency of the matter. What should he do? With the recklessness of despair, he bawled aloud,-- "You varlets, which way am I to go to get to St Catherine’s?" But only the echo from the blackness beyond answered mockingly "Catherine" in quivering note, and the waves surged ceaselessly below. He cried again,--"You caitiffs, you, why don’t you answer?" and the echo laughed back "answer," but none other answer came. "’Tis little use," he muttered, in sullen bitterness of spirit; "but I will yet find out where that smoke came from." He looked at his horse, how should he tether him? He saw beyond, and nearer the head of the chasm, a few bushes growing. Carefully he led his horse along the edge of the abyss, marvelling how he had escaped so awful a death, and regretfully thinking how he had chidden his noble horse, whose sensible instinct had saved both their lives. When he reached the bushes, he saw that he was on the brink of a deep gully, but the ground was all broken and boggy, and covered with closely-growing bush, bramble, and scrub. The mist was gathering up afresh. Great banks of vapour were scudding across the moon, and flitting up the black chasm, suddenly appearing in the moonlight out of the darkness below, like steam out of a cauldron. While he was debating what to do, he was startled by a gentle voice almost at his elbow. Turning quickly round, he saw a graceful figure standing on the edge of the gully, looking like black marble against the broad path of silver glory that stretched across the sea behind it. "Fair sir, whither wouldst thou go?" said the voice. "If thou art of real flesh and blood, gentle damoiselle, I would thank thee to tell me which is my way to St Catherine’s Hermitage." "And thou wouldst not thank me if I were not real flesh and blood?" "Ay, marry would I, an’ thou wert Sathanas himself!" cried the youth impatiently, "if only I could escape from this quagmire of a hole." "Thou art not over-courteous, Sir Page," said the gentle voice.