Seventy feet below I saw a narrow strip of
sand, from which the tide was receding. It ran along under the
great precipice which rose on my right, forming the face of the
mountain on the south side. On that strip of sand the old
hiding-place of the-pirates opened. I thought I saw the
overhanging eaves of rock of which the diary had spoken.
There was truly nothing dangerous about the ledge. It was nearly
three feet wide, and had an easy downward trend. Yet you heard the
hungry roar of the surf below, and try as you would not to, caught
glimpses of the white swirl of it. I moved cautiously, keeping
close to the face of the cliff. Crusoe, to my annoyance, sprang
down upon the ledge after me. I had a feeling that he must
certainly trip me as I picked my way gingerly along.
An angle in the rock--a low dark entrance-way--it was all as Peter
had described it. I peered in--nothing but impenetrable blackness.
I took a hesitating step. The passage veered sharply, as the diary
had recorded. Once around the corner, there would be nothing but
darkness anywhere. One would go stumbling on, feeling with feet
and hands--hands cold with the dread of what they might be going to
touch. For, suddenly portentous and overwhelming, there rose
before me the unanswered question of what had become of Peter on
that last visit to the cave.
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