The wind drummed in his ears, the
flying grit and gravel and spray stung his face; but he struggled on
hoping that this midnight walk would not come to an abrupt end by his
grandfather's declining to go any farther. Above the drumming of the
wind the roar of the sea became more audible every moment; the spume was
thicker; the end of the valley, ordinarily the meeting-place of sand and
grass and small streams with their yellow flags and forget-me-nots, was
a desolation of white foam beyond which against the cliffs showing black
in the nebulous moonlight the breakers leapt high with frothy tongues.
Mark thought that they resembled immense ghosts clawing up to reach the
summit of the cliff. It was incredible that this hell-broth was Church
Cove.
"Hullo!" yelled Ernie Hockin. "Here's the bridge."
It was true. One wave at the moment of high tide had swept snarling over
the stream and carried the bridge into the meadow beyond.
"We'll have to get round by the road," shouted the Vicar.
They turned to the right across a ploughed field and after scrambling
through the hedge emerged in the comparative shelter of the road down
from Pendhu.
"I hope the churchyard wall is all right," said the Vicar. "I never
remember such a night since I came to Nancepean.
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