ON THE CLIFFS 17 



be the wind in the bent grass, or a whisper from 

 the stunted firs on the landward side of the chff. 



Away out on the sparkhng blue the brown sails 

 of fisher boats bound for Bellturbet filled to the 

 light wind, and a mile out from shore, and stretch- 

 ing north-westward, the Seven Sisters rocks broke 

 from the sea. 



That was all. But it was immensely beautiful. 



Nowhere else, perhaps, can you get such loneli- 

 ness as here, on the west coast of Ireland. Loneli- 

 ness without utter desolation. The vast shore, 

 left just as the gods hewed it in the making of the 

 world, hes facing the immense sea. They tell each 

 other things. You can hear the billow talking to 

 the cave and the cave to the billow, and the wind 

 to the chff and the wave to the rock, and the gulls 

 lamenting. And you know that it was all Uke this 

 a thousand years and more ago, when Maeldune 

 set his sails to the wind and headed his ship for 

 the Island of Shouting. 



Moriarty, leaving the donkey to nibble at the 

 scant grass on the cliff top, took his seat on the 

 ground and began to cut a split out of the black- 

 thorn stick, whilst Miss French, with the reins in 

 her hands, looked about her and over the sea. 



She could see a white ring round the base of each 

 of the Seven Sisters rocks; it was a ring of foam, 

 for, placid though the sea looked from these 

 heights, a dangerous swell was running. Now 

 and then, Hke a puff of smoke, a ring of seagulls 

 would burst out from the rocks, contract, dissolve 



