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Ah! Many is the poor Christian I have
pick up there. He throw down hisself. Him dead. Often in small pieces.
Here blood. Here brain. Here leg and boot. Here finger. Ah! The poor
Chiristian. That so, gentlemens."
The bishop scanned with a shudder this frowning cliff of basalt, and
turned to address his companion.
"Do people really throw themselves over here?"
"Very few. Not more than three or four in a season, I'm told. The local
suicides, as a rule, are not as spectacular as they might be
considering the landscape. They shoot themselves or take poison, which
shows a certain consideration for other people. It is not a pleasant
job, you know, to row to this remote spot and scramble about the cliff
at the risk of a broken neck, collecting shattered fragments of
humanity into a potato sack."
"Not at all pleasant!"
"As compared with England," Keith pursued, "life here is intense,
palpitating, dramatic--a kind of blood-curdling farce full of
irresponsible crimes and improbable consequences.


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