It was a fine, still afternoon, with the tide at quiet ebb, and a touch of frost in the air. The sun, low down, burned like a winter fire, and gleamed with a light of sadness on the ribs of the gaunt wreck lying far away on the Weary Sands. She was visible only at low water; at high being completely submerged. No one, so far as I knew, had yet had the curiosity or venturesomeness to row out and investigate the poor castaway. It was just plain to see, by the aid of glasses, that she had broken her back on the drift, and that only her stern half remained, wedged into the sand. But what her name or condition Dunberry had not had the energy to inquire. We were standing at gaze at the foot of the Gap, and when Uncle Jenico went north, we, in obedience to his wish to be left alone, turned our faces down the coast. But we had not taken a score or so of steps when we hooted out simultaneously over the sight that was suddenly revealed to us. The storm had bolted a great hunk, good ten feet through at its thickest, of the Mitre, obliterating the already half-effaced step-way by which Rampick had been wont to ascend, and laying bare, high up in the cliff, a mass of broken masonry. From the character of this last it was evident at a glance what had happened. The seaward limit to the crypts of the old abbey had been shorn through, and the extreme vaulting of that ancient underworld exposed. Nor was this all. The well, now thus further isolated from the hill which had once contained it, was grown, from the washing away of the sand at its base, an apparent five feet or so taller, and was leaning outwards at a distinctly acuter and more ominous angle with the shore. We stood excited a moment, then, without a word, raced to get a closer view. The wrack and downfall, as we looked up at their traces, must have been stupendous; yet so great had been the pulverising force of the waves, the mighty silt from them, except for a few tumbled blocks of stone, was all dispersed and distributed about the shore below, so that a new cliff face, clear of ruin, went up in a pretty clean sweep from beach to summit sixty feet above. From the lower curve of this, where it ran out and down into the sand, the well projected, not ten feet above us, like a little tower of Pisa; and yet thirty feet higher, at a point in the hill face about on a level with the well top, gaped the jagged ruin of masonry which the storm had laid bare. “Dick!” whispered Harry--“Dick!” (He was gulping and gripping my arm hard, as he stared up.) “Supposing we could climb to there and look in!” “Yes!” I choked back. I knew what was in his mind; and the thought fascinated while it frightened me horribly. “I’ve never seen a Dutchman,” he said. “Mrs. Puddephatt, she--it would be fun to find out the truth. What are they like?” “I don’t know,” I answered, shivering. “They wear lots of breeches, I believe. But it’s no good. The place is all choked up. You can see for yourself.”