There was a mist, half-fog, half-spray, scudding before the wind, and
through it I could see the white-backed rollers lifting over Peveril
Point; while all along the cliff-face the sea-birds thronged the ledges,
and sat huddled in snowy lines, knowing the mischief that was brewing in
the elements.
It was a melancholy scene, and bred melancholy in my heart; and about
sun-down the wind southed a point or two, setting the sea more against
the cliff, so that the spray began to fly even over my ledge and drove me
back into the cave. The night came on much sooner than usual, and before
long I was lying on my straw bed in perfect darkness. The wind had gone
still more to south, and was screaming through the opening of the cave;
the caverns down below bellowed and rumbled; every now and then a giant
roller struck the rock such a blow as made the cave tremble, and then a
second later there would fall, splattering on the ledge outside, the
heavy spray that had been lifted by the impact.
I have said that I was melancholy; but worse followed, for I grew timid,
and fearful of the wild night, and the loneliness, and the darkness. And
all sorts of evil tales came to my mind, and I thought much of baleful
heathen gods that St. Aldhelm had banished to these underground cellars,
and of the Mandrive who leapt on people in the dark and strangled them.
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