“No?” she returned simply, and again turned her eyes seawards.  It was late on a midsummer afternoon.  The sun hung a foot or so above the water, a huge ball of dull red fire, and from St. Mary’s out to the horizon’s rim the sea stretched a rippling lagoon of the colour of claret.  Over the whole expanse there was but one boat visible, a lugger, between Sennen and St. Agnes, beating homewards against a light wind.

“It was a storm, I suppose,” said I.  “A storm out of the west?”

“No.  There was no wind, but—­there was a haze, and it was growing dark.”  Mrs. Garstin spoke in a peculiar tone of resignation, with a yearning glance towards the Bishop as I thought, towards the lugger as I know.  But even then I was sure that those last words:  “There was a haze and it was growing dark,” concealed the heart of her distress.  She explained the inscription upon the tablet, while the lugger tacked towards St. Mary’s, and while I gradually began to wonder what still kept her on the island.

At four o’clock on the afternoon of that Christmas Eve, the lighthouse on St. Agnes’ Island showed its lamps; five minutes later the red beams struck out from Round Island to the north; but to the west on the Bishop all was dark.  The haze thickened, and night came on; still there was no flash from the Bishop, and the islands wondered.  Half an hour passed; there was still darkness in the west, and the islands became alarmed.  The Trinity Brethren subsidise a St. Agnes’ lugger to serve the Bishop, and this boat was got ready.  At a quarter to five suddenly the Bishop light shot through the gloom, but immediately after a shutter was interposed quickly some half-a-dozen times.  It was the signal of distress, and the lugger worked out to the Bishop with the tide.  Of the three keepers there were now only two.

It appeared from their account that Garstin took the middle day watch, that they themselves were asleep, and that Garstin should have roused them to light the lamps at a quarter to four.  They woke of their own accord in the dark, and at once believed they had slept into the night.  The clock showed them it was half-past four.  They mounted to the lantern room, and nowhere was there any sign of Garstin.  They lit the lamps.  The first thing they saw was the log.  It was open and the last entry was written in Garstin’s hand and was timed 3.40 P.M.  It mentioned a ketch reaching northwards.  The two men descended the winding-stairs, and the cold air breathed upon their faces.  The brass door at the foot of the stairs stood open.  From that door thirty feet of gun-metal rungs let in to the outside of the lighthouse lead down to the set-off, which is a granite rim less than a yard wide, and unprotected by any rail.  They shouted downwards from the doorway, and received no answer.  They descended to the set-off, and again no Garstin, not even his cap.  He was not.

Garstin had entered up the log, had climbed down to the set-off for five minutes of fresh air, and somehow had slipped, though the wind was light and the sea whispering.  But the whispering sea ran seven miles an hour past the Bishop.