"Yes; but what part of the Devonshire coast?"
"Just round the corner to the east is the Start, and when we get up a little higher, I'll show you Prawle Point to the west."
When they reached the top, both paused before the striking scene presented to them of the iron coast, where acres of black jagged rocks extended from the steep cliffs far out into the sea, like the lower jaw of a gigantic alligator. Stranleigh said the scene was sublime; Blake called it horrible.
A naval-looking man strolled up with a telescope under his arm, and overhearing the last remark, chimed in:
"You may well say that, sir, but you should see it in a south-west gale, with the waves rolling in torn to pieces on them rocks."
"A ship wouldn't have much chance," said Blake, "once she touched the reef."
No chance at all, sir. It's a terrible coast. On a March night, in '91, the London steamer Marana, went ashore, and twenty-five hands lost, and an hour later the barque Dryad, of Liverpool, all hands lost, twenty-one of them, and next morning not a plank or a spar of either vessel to be found. Fifty-two lives lost that night; men and boats ground to bits on them rocks."
