A butterfly settled on a purple sea-thistle close to his head. It poised there with fanning wings, so languid, so unconcerned. _It_ didn't mind. A bitter anger surged up in the boy's heart. It was sitting there flopping its wings out of swagger--to show it had them. He'd teach it to swagger! He put up his thumb to crush it. Then he remembered himself. He must be just in this that might be his last moment on earth. After all the butterfly couldn't help itself. It was made that way; and perhaps it didn't mean it. To kill it was spiteful--worthy of a girl, worthy of Gwen, as he would have told her had she been present. That would get Gwen into one of her states. His eyes twinkled, and grew haggard again. He observed the butterfly with extraordinary intensity. Its body and wings were the colour of the sea; the undersides of the wings a silvery-brown. The face was white, with large black eyes, and long antennae. Lovely furry down clothed body, thighs, and lower wings. On the nose two tiny horns stuck up.... He would have given all he possessed to be that butterfly just then. Yet after all--could the butterfly venture for his country?--and would he if he could? Suddenly the boy's soul broke through the darkness shrouding it, and bubbled up, a sea of twinkling, tumbling light. Standing there, clawing the cliff, death at his feet, Eternity within touch of him, he laughed. At the crisis his humour, heaven's best gift, had saved him. _I will yet go forward._ A knob of chalk, swelling out of the side of the cliff, caught his eye. He saw it, and too wise to pause for thought, sprang. His foot touched the knob. He thrust back. As he thrust, it gave beneath him, and fell with a resounding splash into the sea. But it had done its work; and he was swinging with one hand on the stem of the green-plumed bush.... Curiously familiar this swinging in space with fluttering heart.... Was it only in dreams?... The splash of the falling boulder set the gulls screaming. "_There!_" shrilled a voice, faint and far beneath. "_What did I tell you?_" "_Take the boat, Red Beard, and have a look._" Kit, swinging, heard the dip of oars. Another second and the boat would be round the Head, and he, hanging there, black against the white cliff, as easy to kill as a fly on a window-pane. He reached up his left arm, swung once and again, and loosed his hold. He flung through the air, the sea glancing sickeningly miles below, and landed on hands and knees on the green carpet. _Hallowed be Thy Name._ CHAPTER XXIV THE CLIMB I _"There's nowt here,"_ called a voice from below. _"A fall of the cliff belike."_ The boat put back. Kit stayed on hands and knees on the grass plateau, his forehead bowed to the ground in attitude of prayer. He was sick with humility and thankfulness.