For this, terrible though it was in its majestic fury, was life, and that black stillness below was death.
To the tune of the tumult without, he worked out the dead man's story in his mind.
It was long ago in the old smuggling days.

Some bold free-trader of Sark or Guernsey had lighted on that cave and used it as a storehouse.

Some too energetic revenue officer had disappeared one day and never been heard of again.

He had been surprised--by the free-traders--perhaps in the very act of surprising them--brought over to L'Etat in a boat, been dragged through the tunnel, or made to crawl through, perhaps, with vicious knife-digs in the rear, and had been left bound in the darkness till he should be otherwise disposed of.

His captors had been captured in turn, or maybe killed, and he had lain there alone and in the dark, waiting, waiting for them to return, shouting now and again into the muffling darkness, struggling with his bonds, growing weaker and weaker, faint with hunger, mad with thirst, until at last he died.
It was horrible to think of, and desperate as his own state was, he thanked God heartily that he was not as that other.
Morning brought no slackening of the gale.