A Robber Stronghold. in 



sight of the motionless figure, and, with hoarse notes 

 of challenge, deals him a buffet as he passes. 



The buzzard, spreading with reluctance his great 

 brown wings, wheels into the air. He has no mind 

 for battle, but his enemy presses him hard with beak 

 and pinion. The two figures, dark and light, rise and 

 fall, and flutter, and wheel this way and that, and then 

 drift screaming round the headland, fighting still. 



Now above the low grey coast-line peers the sun. 



There is no splendour in the misty sky, no gleam of 

 golden arrows among purple clouds. Only a touch of 

 fire that broadens fast into a round, red shield. 



The ripples on the sea are lined in crimson. The 

 piles of rock along the shore, draped with rich brown 

 weed, still glistening from the falling tide, are touched 

 with gold. There is silver on the flashing surf, on the 

 wet slope of pebbles, on the shining line of seaweed 

 that sweetens the cool air of morning with its fragrant 

 breath. 



This brief stretch of shingle is the only break in all 

 the coast-line. A narrow way winds upward from the 

 sea, a road that a handful of defenders might hold 

 against an army. 



Some points there are, on the far side of the island, 

 where a man may scramble up the rocks, but so well 

 defended by its cliffs is the little islet that ' there is no 

 entrance but for friends.' 



This granite rock, from the mainland but a line of 

 cloud along the sea, at most a purple bar against a 



