"Brother Petroc lay dying; that is, if he were not already dead. Outside the Monastery, scarcely a hundred yards from the edge of the cliff, the surf of the ever-restless Atlantic beat on the wild north Cornish shore, and a fine mist of spray blew in, as it always did, at the narrow unglazed window of the cell. But the crash of breakers and the screaming of gulls had no power to disturb Brother Petroc, who lay with closed eyes on his pallet, serene and motionless; so still that even the gradually weakening breathing seemed to have stopped at last. Presently there was a sound of steps..."