One minute passed--two--and when five minutes had gone he shouted again, following this up with a whistle so piercing that it fetched a distant echo from the rocks.
But was it an echo?
The sound had scarcely died away when it was repeated again.

A moment later Jervis heard it yet again, and knew for a certainty that it was no echo, but someone whistling back to him.
The breeze had freshened to a gale that roared in his ears like thunder, as he drew his boat high up beyond reach of the tide that was running in strongly; and when the boat was safe he set out to climb the rocks.

Up, and up, a dizzy height he went, finding foothold with difficulty, for what looked like solid rock had a trick of crumbling when stepped upon, just as if it were rotten mortar.
But he reached the top at last, and paused to look about him, holding fast with both hands, for the force of the wind at this height was so great that he feared lest he should be blown away.
On one side was the bay, with great waves, foam-crested, rolling in, to break with a thunderous roar on the beach.

Spread out on the other hand was the wild, rocky waste, full of dangers now, for in the deep valleys between great rock boulders the incoming tide was rising and making deep pools where a little before had been dry ground.
It was these pools that Jervis feared.

If Mary had slipped into one of these deep places she might easily be caught by the rising flood, and drowned before help could reach her.
The mere thought turned him sick, and he whistled shrilly as before.
The answering whistle came so promptly, and sounded so close, that he started in surprise, then shouted: "Where are you ?" "Here," replied a voice that sounded so close, so audibly that he looked round in mystification.