Whistling--faint at first! It was a gay little Neapolitan air. Singing for a stave or two! It broke off--the whistling took up the air. Gulls flew up, circling and screaming. Above the moldering ramparts, red and gold against the red and gold of the sunset, came the valiant head of a man who might have been the last of the pirates. His eyes shone like blue fire. The wind was in his beard and hair. When he had lifted himself on to the wall, he stood there, on the very edge, looking back perilously. He was of extraordinary height and strength. The teeth, through which he whistled, were strong and white--everything about him was powerful, his hands, his shoulders, his courageous face. He seemed a survival of ancient deity--a sea-god who, thinking himself unobserved, had landed at the spot where, centuries ago, Venus had been worshiped by a forgotten world. He looked solitary and irresponsible--a law to himself. Because of his size and the remoteness of the place, Kay was filled with lonely terror. He walked slowly over to the easel in the broken archway. He was bare-armed and bare-footed; his shirt was collarless and turned back at the neck. Still whistling, he picked up the palette, pushed his thumb through it, glanced across his shoulder seaward and commenced touching in streaks of color. He worked carelessly, yet with rapid intensity. Sometimes he left ofif whistling, stepped back from the canvas, his head on one side, and surveyed his handiwork. The light was failings Kay prayed that he had finished--but no. Driven to desperation, she thought she could creep by him. Harry and Peter would be getting nervous. She had drawn level with him. A stone turned beneath her foot. His head twisted sharply. She commenced to run. Glancing back, she saw his eyes following--he was laying down his brushes and palette. In her panic, she had chosen the wrong direction; a wall rose in front, blocking her exit. He was coming--she could hear his bare feet overtaking her. She climbed the wall; below lay the sea, now orange, now sullen in patches. There was no way of escape; she looked down. The space made her dizzy; she groped with her hands as if to push back the distance. She felt like a bird with its wings folded, falling, falling. Everything had gone black. For a moment she was held out above the sea, her flight arrested. Blue eyes bent over her laughing. She was swung back. She found herself lying on the sun-scorched turf. The man was kneeling beside her, chafing her hands and forehead. Her faintness left her. As she gazed up at him, he smiled and said something in an unintelligible language. She sat up bewildered, trying to appear brave. “I'm--I'm all right, thank you. I'll go now.” “Ah, a little English girl!” His voice was deep and pleasant.