"
The policeman departed on his melancholy errand and the procession moved
swiftly across the sandy beach and up the stone-paved way by which boats
were dragged down the cliff to the sea. The village of Bryngelly lay to
the right. It had grown away from the church, which stood dangerously
near the edge of the cliff. On the further side of the church, and a
little behind it, partly sheltered from the sea gales by a group of
stunted firs, was the Vicarage, a low single-storied stone-roofed
building, tenanted for twenty-five years past and more by Beatrice's
father, the Rev. Joseph Granger. The best approach to it from the
Bryngelly side was by the churchyard, through which the men with the
stretchers were now winding, followed by the crowd of sightseers.
"Might as well leave them here at once," said one of the bearers to the
other in Welsh. "I doubt they are both dead enough."
The person addressed assented, and the thick-set man wrapped in a dark
cloak, who was striding along by Beatrice's stretcher, groaned again.
Clearly, he understood the Welsh tongue. A few seconds more and they
were passing through the stunted firs up to the Vicarage door.
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