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Updated: June 25, 2025
The place probably attracted Gilliatt's gaze because it was a favourite sojourn of his a natural seat cut in the great cliffs, and affording a magnificent view of the sea. It was a place to which some uninitiated traveller would climb with delight from the shore and sit entranced by the scene before him, all oblivious of the rising ocean till he was completely cut off from escape.
The tide was nearly at the full. Evening was approaching. Gilliatt's eyes continued fixed upon the vessel on the horizon. Their expression resembled nothing earthly. A strange lustre shone in their calm and tragic depths. There was in them the peace of vanished hopes, the calm but sorrowful acceptance of an end far different from his dreams.
Sea-mews and cormorants flew about him restlessly, as if anxious to warn him of his danger. The ship was rapidly growing less. There was no foam around the rock where he sat; no wave beat against its granite sides. The water rose peacefully. It was nearly level with Gilliatt's shoulders. The birds were hovering about him, uttering short cries. Only his head was now visible.
Gilliatt's appearance was hideous. He was in the condition in which he had that morning set sail from the rocks in rags, his bare elbows showing through his sleeves, his beard long, his hair rough and wild, his eyes bloodshot, his skin peeling, his hands covered with wounds, his feet naked and torn. Some of the blisters left by the devil-fish were still visible upon his arms.
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