Delphi Complete Works of Arthur Quiller-Couch (Illustrated) E-Book

Arthur Quiller-Couch

• Herausgeber: Delphi Publishing Ltd
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Serie: Delphi Series Twelve
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Seitenzahl: 17275

Beschreibung

A giant of early-twentieth century English literature, Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch was a prolific novelist, poet and literary critic. Celebrated for his clear and effortless style, he produced masterpieces in numerous genres, including adventure fiction, children’s classics, poetry, critical essays and influential anthologies. For the first time in publishing history, this eBook provides Quiller-Couch’s complete fictional works, with numerous illustrations, rare texts, informative introductions and the usual Delphi bonus material. (Version 1)

* Beautifully illustrated with images relating to Quiller-Couch’s life and works
* Concise introductions to the novels and other texts
* All 23 novels, with individual contents tables
* Features rare novels, including the unfinished novel ‘Castle Dor’. (Please note: Daphne du Maurier’s completion cannot appear due to copyright)
* Images of how the books were first published, giving your eReader a taste of the original texts
* Excellent formatting of the texts
* Famous works are fully illustrated with their original artwork
* Rare story collections
* Special chronological and alphabetical contents tables for the short stories
* Easily locate the stories you want to read
* Poetry collections
* Wide range of Quiller-Couch’s non-fiction
* Features the author’s autobiography — first time in digital print
* Ordering of texts into chronological order and genres

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CONTENTS:

The Novels
Dead Man’s Rock (1887)
The Astonishing History of Troy Town (1888)
The Splendid Spur (1889)
The Blue Pavilions (1891)
Ia (1896)
St. Ives (1898)
The Ship of Stars (1899)
The Westcotes (1902)
Hetty Wesley (1903)
The Adventures of Harry Revel (1903)
Fort Amity (1904)
The Shining Ferry (1905)
The Mayor of Troy (1906)
Sir John Constantine (1906)
Poison Island (1907)
Major Vigoureux (1907)
True Tilda (1909)
Lady Good-for-Nothing (1910)
Brother Copas (1911)
Hocken and Hunken (1912)
Nicky-Nan, Reservist (1915)
Foe-Farrell (1918)
Castle Dor (1962)

The Short Story Collections
Noughts and Crosses (1891)
The Delectable Duchy (1893)
I Saw Three Ships and Other Winter’s Tales (1893)
Wandering Heath (1895)
Old Fires and Profitable Ghosts (1900)
The White Wolf and Other Fireside Tales (1902)
Two Sides of the Face (1903)
Shakespeare’s Christmas and Other Stories (1905)
Merry-Garden and Other Stories (1907)
The Sleeping Beauty and Other Fairy Tales from the Old French (1910)
Corporal Sam and Other Stories (1910)
News from the Duchy (1913)
In Powder and Crinoline (1913)
Mortallone and Aunt Trinidad (1917)
Miscellaneous Short Stories

The Short Stories
List of Short Stories in Chronological Order
List of Short Stories in Alphabetical Order

The Poetry Collections
Green Bays, Verses and Parodies (1893)
The Vigil of Venus and Other Poems (1912)

The Non-Fiction
The Warwickshire Avon (1891)
Preface to ‘The Golden Pomp’ (1895)
Adventures in Criticism (1896)
Oxford Book of English Verse, 1250–1900 (1900)
From a Cornish Window (1906)
Introduction to ‘English Sonnets’ (1897)
The Oxford Book of Ballads (1911)
Thomas Edward Brown (1911)
Poetry (1914)
On the Art of Writing (1916)
Introduction to ‘Characters of Shakespeare’s Plays’ (1916) by William Hazlitt
On the Art of Reading (1920)
Preface to ‘The Oxford Book of Victorian Verse’ (1922)
Preface to ‘Oxford Book of English Prose’ (1923)

The Autobiography
Memories and Opinions (1945)

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Leseprobe

The Complete Works of

ARTHUR QUILLER-COUCH

(1863-1944)

Contents

The Novels

Dead Man’s Rock (1887)

The Astonishing History of Troy Town (1888)

The Splendid Spur (1889)

The Blue Pavilions (1891)

Ia (1896)

St. Ives (1898)

The Ship of Stars (1899)

The Westcotes (1902)

Hetty Wesley (1903)

The Adventures of Harry Revel (1903)

Fort Amity (1904)

The Shining Ferry (1905)

The Mayor of Troy (1906)

Sir John Constantine (1906)

Poison Island (1907)

Major Vigoureux (1907)

True Tilda (1909)

Lady Good-for-Nothing (1910)

Brother Copas (1911)

Hocken and Hunken (1912)

Nicky-Nan, Reservist (1915)

Foe-Farrell (1918)

Castle Dor (1962)

The Short Story Collections

Noughts and Crosses (1891)

The Delectable Duchy (1893)

I Saw Three Ships and Other Winter’s Tales (1893)

Wandering Heath (1895)

Old Fires and Profitable Ghosts (1900)

The White Wolf and Other Fireside Tales (1902)

Two Sides of the Face (1903)

Shakespeare’s Christmas and Other Stories (1905)

Merry-Garden and Other Stories (1907)

The Sleeping Beauty and Other Fairy Tales from the Old French (1910)

Corporal Sam and Other Stories (1910)

News from the Duchy (1913)

In Powder and Crinoline (1913)

Mortallone and Aunt Trinidad (1917)

Miscellaneous Short Stories

The Short Stories

List of Short Stories in Chronological Order

List of Short Stories in Alphabetical Order

The Poetry Collections

Green Bays, Verses and Parodies (1893)

The Vigil of Venus and Other Poems (1912)

The Non-Fiction

The Warwickshire Avon (1891)

Preface to ‘The Golden Pomp’ (1895)

Adventures in Criticism (1896)

Oxford Book of English Verse, 1250–1900 (1900)

From a Cornish Window (1906)

Introduction to ‘English Sonnets’ (1897)

The Oxford Book of Ballads (1911)

Thomas Edward Brown (1911)

Poetry (1914)

On the Art of Writing (1916)

Introduction to ‘Characters of Shakespeare’s Plays’ (1916) by William Hazlitt

On the Art of Reading (1920)

Preface to ‘The Oxford Book of Victorian Verse’ (1922)

Preface to ‘Oxford Book of English Prose’ (1923)

The Autobiography

Memories and Opinions (1945)

The Delphi Classics Catalogue

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Version 1

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The Complete Works of

ARTHUR QUILLER-COUCH

By Delphi Classics, 2022

COPYRIGHT

Complete Works of Arthur Quiller-Couch

First published in the United Kingdom in 2022 by Delphi Classics.

© Delphi Classics, 2022.

All rights reserved.  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form other than that in which it is published.

ISBN: 978 1 80170 053 5

Delphi Classics

is an imprint of

Delphi Publishing Ltd

Hastings, East Sussex

United Kingdom

Contact: [email protected]

www.delphiclassics.com

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The Novels

Bodmin, a town in Cornwall — Arthur Quiller-Couch’s birthplace

The site of Quiller-Couch’s birthplace, Turf Street, Bodmin

Dead Man’s Rock (1887)

Quiller-Couch was just twenty-four years old and still at Oxford University when this novel was first published in October 1887.  An adventure yarn, it tells of the pirates Amos Trenoweth and Ralph Colliver, who come across the Great Ruby of Ceylon. Fuelled by greed Trenoweth murders Colliver in the presence of his wife, who is six months’ pregnant with their son, Simon. Amos leaves instructions regarding the treasure with Elihu Sanderson in Bombay and buries the ruby at Dead Man’s Rock. Over the years Trenoweth settles down, marries, converts to Methodism and has a son of his own, Ezekiel. When Amos dies Ezekiel falls on hard times and decides to contact Sanderson as instructed in his father’s will.

Simon recognises Ezekiel and knowing what he’s going to do, books tickets for himself and a friend, John Railton, on the same boat to Bombay. In Bombay Ezekiel picks up the instructions and makes his way to Ceylon, where he discovers the bones of Ralph Colliver and a two piece ‘Buckle of Gold’ called the Golden Clasp, as well as details about the secret of the Great Ruby On the boat back Colliver manages to steal one piece of the buckle and he and Railton organise a mutiny, only for the boat to founder on Dead Man’s Rock. Murders and adventure abound before we find out what happens to the Great Ruby…

When one considers this was a first book written by someone in their early twenties, it was surprisingly well received by the critics. The Daily News, for example, said the author has written “a fascinating story and has exhibited in a marked degree the gift of exciting and maintaining curiosity and of investing a cunningly woven tissue of romantic incidents with that indefinable feeling of awe and wonderment which is the triumph of the romance writer’s art.” Some though were a little more contained: “There is imagination and not a little power in the record of horrors called ‘Dead Man’s Rock’. No doubt the author has ceded to the temptation of ‘piling up the agony’ in a somewhat uniform manner that betrays inexperience, but he or she certainly has a gift for the tale, half romantic adventure, half supernatural.”

Quiller-Couch as a young man

The first edition

CONTENTS

BOOK I. THE QUEST OF THE GREAT RUBY.

CHAPTER I.

CHAPTER II.

CHAPTER III.

CHAPTER IV.

CHAPTER V.

CHAPTER VI.

CHAPTER VII.

CHAPTER VIII.

CHAPTER IX.

CHAPTER X.

CHAPTER XI.

BOOK II. THE FINDING OF THE GREAT RUBY.

CHAPTER I.

CHAPTER II.

CHAPTER III.

CHAPTER IV.

CHAPTER V.

CHAPTER VI.

CHAPTER VII.

CHAPTER VIII.

CHAPTER IX.

CHAPTER X.

CHAPTER XI. AND LAST.

The first edition’s title page

TO THE MEMORY

OF MY FATHER

I DEDICATE THIS BOOK.

BOOK I. THE QUEST OF THE GREAT RUBY.

CHAPTER I.

TELLS OF THE STRANGE WILL OF MY GRANDFATHER, AMOS TRENOWETH.

WHATEVERCLAIMSTHISstory may have upon the notice of the world, they will rest on no niceties of style or aptness of illustration. It is a plain tale, plainly told: nor, as I conceive, does its native horror need any ingenious embellishment. There are many books that I, though a man of no great erudition, can remember, which gain much of interest from the pertinent and appropriate comments with which the writer has seen fit to illustrate any striking situation. From such books an observing man may often draw the exactest rules for the regulation of life and conduct, and their authors may therefore be esteemed public benefactors. Among these I, Jasper Trenoweth, can claim no place; yet I venture to think my history will not altogether lack interest — and this for two reasons. It deals with the last chapter (I pray Heaven it be the last) in the adventures of a very remarkable gem — none other, in fact, than the Great Ruby of Ceylon; and it lifts, at least in part, the veil which for some years has hidden a certain mystery of the sea. For the moral, it must be sought by the reader himself in the following pages.

To make all clear, I must go back half a century, and begin with the strange and unaccountable Will made in the year of Grace 1837 by my grandfather, Amos Trenoweth, of Lantrig in the County of Cornwall. The old farm-house of Lantrig, heritage and home of the Trenoweths as far as tradition can reach, and Heaven knows how much longer, stands some few miles N.W. of the Lizard, facing the Atlantic gales from behind a scanty veil of tamarisks, on Pedn-glas, the northern point of a small sandy cove, much haunted of old by smugglers, but now left to the peaceful boats of the Polkimbra fishermen. In my grandfather’s time however, if tales be true, Ready-Money Cove saw many a midnight cargo run, and many a prize of cognac and lace found its way to the cellars and store-room of Lantrig. Nay, there is a story (but for its truth I will not vouch) of a struggle between my grandfather’s lugger, the Pride of Heart, and a certain Revenue cutter, and of an unowned shot that found a Preventive Officer’s heart. But the whole tale remains to this day full of mystery, nor would I mention it save that it may be held to throw some light on my grandfather’s sudden disappearance no long time after. Whither he went, none clearly knew. Folks said, to fight the French; but when he returned suddenly some twenty years later, he said little about sea-fights, or indeed on any other subject; nor did many care to question him, for he came back a stern, taciturn man, apparently with no great wealth, but also without seeming to want for much, and at any rate indisposed to take the world into his confidence. His father had died meanwhile, so he quietly assumed the mastership at Lantrig, nursed his failing mother tenderly until her death, and then married one of the Triggs of Mullyon, of whom was born my father, Ezekiel Trenoweth.

I have hinted, what I fear is but the truth, that my grandfather had led a hot and riotous youth, fearing neither God, man, nor devil. Before his return, however, he had “got religion” from some quarter, and was confirmed in it by the preaching of one Jonathan Wilkins, as I have heard, a Methodist from “up the country,” and a powerful mover of souls. As might have been expected in such a man as my grandfather, this religion was of a joyless and gloomy order, full of anticipations of hell-fire and conviction of the sinfulness of ordinary folk. But it undoubtedly was sincere, for his wife Philippa believed in it, and the master and mistress of Lantrig were alike the glory and strong support of the meeting-house at Polkimbra until her death. After this event, her husband shut himself up with the tortures of his own stern conscience, and was seen by few. In this dismal self-communing he died on the 27th of October, 1837, leaving behind him one mourner, his son Ezekiel, then a strong and comely youth of twenty-two.

This brings me to my grandfather’s Will, discovered amongst his papers after his death; and surely no stranger or more perplexing document was ever penned, especially as in this case any will was unnecessary, seeing that only one son was left to claim the inheritance. Men guessed that those dark years of seclusion and self-repression had been spent in wrestling with memories of a sinful and perhaps a criminal past, and predicted that Amos Trenoweth could not die without confession. They were partly right, from knowledge of human nature; and partly wrong, from ignorance of my grandfather’s character.

The Will was dated “June 15th, 1837,” and ran as follows: —

“I, Amos Trenoweth, of Lantrig, in the Parish of Polkimbra and County of Cornwall, feeling, in this year of Grace Eighteen hundred and thirty-seven, that my Bodily Powers are failing and the Hour drawing near when I shall be called to account for my Many and Grievous Sins, do hereby make Provision for my Death and also for my son Ezekiel, together with such Descendants as may hereafter be born to him. To this my son Ezekiel I give and bequeath the Farm and House of Lantrig, with all my Worldly Goods, and add my earnest hope that this may suffice to support both him and his Descendants in Godliness and Contentment, knowing how greatly these excell the Wealth of this World and the Lusts of the Flesh. But, knowing also the mutability of earthly things, I do hereby command and enjoin that, if at any time He or his Descendants be in stress and tribulation of poverty, the Head of our Family of Trenoweth shall strictly and faithfully obey these my Latest Directions. He shall take ship and go unto Bombay in India, to the house of Elihu Sanderson, Esquire, or his Heirs, and there, presenting in person this my last Will and Testament, together with the Holy Bible now lying in the third drawer of my Writing Desk, shall duly and scrupulously execute such instructions as the said Elihu Sanderson or his Heirs shall lay upon him.

“Also I command and enjoin, under pain of my Dying Curse, that the Iron Key now hanging from the Middle Beam in the Front Parlour be not touched or moved, until he who undertakes this Task shall have returned and have crossed the threshold of Lantrig, having duly performed all the said Instructions. And furthermore that the said Task be not undertaken lightly or except in direst Need, under pain of Grievous and Sore Affliction. This I say, knowing well the Spiritual and worldly Perils that shall beset such an one, and having myself been brought near to Destruction of Body and Soul, which latter may Christ in His Mercy avert.

“Thus, having eased my mind of great and pressing Anguish, I commend my soul to God, before Whose Judgment Bar I shall be presently summoned to stand, the greatest of sinners, yet not without hope of Everlasting Redemption, for Christ’s sake. Amen.

“AMOS TRENOWETH.”

Such was the Will, written on stiff parchment in crabbed and unscholarly characters, without legal forms or witnesses; but all such were needless, as I have pointed out. And, indeed, my father was wise, as I think, to show it to nobody, but go his way quietly as before, managing the farm as he had managed it during the old man’s last years. Only by degrees he broke from the seclusion which had been natural to him during his parents’ lifetime, so far as to look about for a wife — shyly enough at first — until he caught the dark eyes of Margery Freethy one Sunday morning in Polkimbra Church, whither he had gone of late for freedom, to the no small tribulation of the meeting-house. Now, whether this tribulation arose from the backsliding of a promising member, or the loss of the owner of Lantrig (who was at the same time unmarried), I need not pause here to discuss. Nor is it necessary to tell how regularly Margery and Ezekiel found themselves in church, nor how often they caught each other’s eyes straying from the prayer-book. It is enough that at the year’s end Margery answered Ezekiel’s question, and shortly after came to Lantrig “for good.”

The first years of their married life must have been very happy, as I gather from the hushed joy with which my mother always spoke of them. I gather also that my first appearance in this world caused more delight than I have ever given since — God forgive me for it! But shortly after I was four years old everything began to go wrong. First of all, two ships in which my father had many shares were lost at sea; then the cattle were seized with plague, and the stock gradually dwindled away to nothing. Finally, my father’s bank broke — or, as we say in the West, “went scat!” — and we were left all but penniless, with the prospect of having to sell Lantrig, being without stock and lacking means to replenish it. It was at this time, I have since learnt from my mother, that Amos Trenoweth’s Will was first thought about. She, poor soul! had never heard of the parchment before, and her heart misgave her as she read of peril to soul and body sternly hinted at therein. Also, her best-beloved brother had gone down in a squall off the Cape of Good Hope, so that she always looked upon the sea as a cruel and treacherous foe, and shuddered to think of it as lying in wait for her Ezekiel’s life. It came to pass, therefore, that for two years the young wife’s tears and entreaties prevailed; but at the end of this time, matters growing worse and worse, and also because it seemed hard that Lantrig should pass away from the Trenoweths while, for aught we knew, treasure was to be had for the looking, poverty and my father’s wish prevailed, and it was determined, with the tearful assent of my mother, that he should start to seek this Elihu Sanderson, of Bombay, and, with good fortune, save the failing house of the Trenoweths. Only he waited until the worst of the winter was over, and then, having commended us both to the care of his aunt, Elizabeth Loveday, of Lizard Town, and provided us with the largest sum he could scrape together (and small indeed it was), he started for the port of Plymouth one woeful morning in February, and thence sailed away in the good ship Golden Wave to win his inheritance.

CHAPTER II.

TELLS HOW MY FATHER WENT TO SEEK THE TREASURE; AND HOW MY MOTHER HEARD A CRY IN THE NIGHT.

SOMYFATHERsailed away, carrying with him — sewn for safety in his jersey’s side — the Will and the small clasped Bible; nor can I think of stranger equipment for the hunting of earthly treasure. And the great iron key hung untouched from the beam, while the spiders outvied one another in wreathing it with their webs, knowing it to be the only spot in Lantrig where they were safe from my mother’s broom. It is with these spiders that my recollections begin, for of my father, before he sailed away, remembrance is dim and scanty, being confined to the picture of a tall fair man, with huge shoulders and wonderful grey eyes, that changed in a moment from the stern look he must have inherited from Amos to an extraordinary depth of love and sympathy. Also I have some faint memories of a pig, named Eleazar (for no well-explained reason), which fell over the cliff one night and awoke the household with its cries. But this I mention only because it happened, as I learn, before my father’s going, and not for any connection with my story. We must have lived a very quiet life at Lantrig, even as lives go on our Western coast. I remember my mother now as she went softly about the house contriving and scheming to make the two ends of our small possessions meet. She was a woman who always walked softly, and, indeed, talked so, with a low musical voice such as I shall never hear again, nor can ever hope to. But I remember her best in church, as she knelt and prayed for her absent husband, and also in the meeting-house, which she sometimes attended, more to please Aunt Elizabeth than for any good it did her. For the religion there was too sombre for her quiet sorrow; and often I have seen a look of awful terror possess her eyes when the young minister gave out the hymn and the fervid congregation wailed forth —

“In midst of life we are in death.Oh! stretch Thine arm to save. Amid the storm’s tumultuous breathAnd roaring of the wave.”

Which, among a fishing population, was considered a particularly appropriate hymn; and, truly, to hear the unction with which the word “tu-mult-u-ous” was rendered, with all strength of lung and rolling of syllables, was moving enough. But my mother would grow all white and trembling, and clutch my hand sometimes, as though to save herself from shipwreck; whilst I too often would be taken with the passion of the chant, and join lustily in the shouting, only half comprehending her mortal anguish. It was this, perhaps, and many another such scene, which drew upon me her gentle reproof for pointing one day to the text above the pulpit and repeating, “How dreadful is this place!” But that was after I had learned to spell.

It had always been my father’s wish that I should grow up “a scholar,” which, in those days, meant amongst us one who could read and write with no more than ordinary difficulty. So one of my mother’s chief cares was to teach me my letters, which I learnt from big A to “Ampusand” in the old hornbook at Lantrig. I have that hornbook still,

 — — “Covered with pellucid horn,To save from fingers wet the letters fair.”

The horn, alas! is no longer pellucid, but dim, as if with the tears of the many generations that have struggled through the alphabet and the first ten numerals and reached in due course the haven of the Lord’s Prayer and Doxology. I had passed the Doxology, and was already deep in the “Pilgrim’s Progress” and the “Holy War” (which latter book, with the rude taste of childhood, I greatly preferred, so that I quickly knew the mottoes and standards of its bewildering hosts by heart), when my father’s first letter came home. In those days, before the great canal was cut, a voyage to the East Indies was no light matter, lying as it did around the treacherous Cape and through seas where a ship may lie becalmed for weeks. So it was little wonder that my father’s letter, written from Bombay, was some time on its way. Still, when the news came it was good. He had seen Mr. Elihu Sanderson, son of the Elihu mentioned in my grandfather’s Will, had presented his parchment and Testament, and received some notes (most of which he sent home), together with a sealed packet, directed in Amos Trenoweth’s handwriting: “To the Son of my House, who, having Counted all the Perils, is Resolute.” This packet, my father went on to say, contained much mysterious matter, which would keep until he and his dear wife met. He added that, for himself, he could divine no peril, nor any cause for his dear wife to trouble, seeing that he had but to go to the island of Ceylon, whence, having accomplished the commands contained in the packet, he purposed to take ship and return with all speed to England. This was the substance of the letter, wrapped around with many endearing words, and much tender solicitude for Margery and the little one, as that he hoped Jasper was tackling his letters like a real scholar, and comforting his mother’s heart, with more to this effect; which made us weep very sorrowfully when the letter was read, although we could not well have told why. As to the sealed packet, my father would have been doubtless more explicit had he been without a certain distrust of letters and letter-carriers, which, amid much faith in the miraculous powers of the Post Office, I have known to exist among us even in these later days.

Than this blessed letter surely no written sheet was ever more read and re-read; read to me every night before prayers were said, read to Aunt Elizabeth and Uncle Loveday, read (in extracts) to all the neighbours of Polkimbra, for none knew certainly why Ezekiel had gone to India except that, somewhat vaguely, it was to “better hisself.” How many times my mother read it, and kissed it, and cried over it, God alone knows; I only know that her step, which had been failing of late, grew firmer, and she went about the house with a light in her face like “the face of an angel,” as the vicar said. It may have been: I have never since seen its like upon earth.

After this came the great joy of sending an answer, which I wrote (with infinite pains as to the capital letters) at my mother’s dictation. And then it was read over and corrected, and added to, and finally directed, as my father had instructed us, to “Mr. Ezekiel Trenoweth; care of John P. Eversleigh, Esq., of the East India Company’s Service, Colombo, Ceylon.” I remember that my mother sealed it with the red cornelian Ezekiel had given her when he asked her to be his wife, and took it with her own hands to Penzance to post, having, for the occasion, harnessed old Pleasure in the cart for the first time since we had been alone.

Then we had to wait again, and the little store of money grew small indeed. But Aunt Elizabeth was a wonderful contriver, and tender of heart besides, although in most things to be called a “hard” woman. She had married, during my grandfather’s long absence, Dr. Loveday, of Lizard Town — a mild little man with a prodigious vanity in brass buttons, and the most terrific religious beliefs, which did not in the least alter his natural sweetness of temper. My aunt and uncle (it was impossible to think of them except in this order) would often drive or walk over to Lantrig, seldom without some little present, which, together with my aunt’s cap-box, would emerge from the back seat, amid a duetto something after this fashion: —

My Aunt. “So, my dear, we thought as we were driving in this direction we would see how you were getting on; and by great good fortune, or rather as I should say (Jasper, do not hang your head so; it looks so deceitful) by the will of Heaven (and Heaven’s will be done, you know, my dear, which must be a great comfort to you in your sore affliction), as Cyrus was driving into Cadgwith yesterday — were you not, Cyrus?”

My Uncle. “To be sure, my dear.”

My Aunt. “Well, as I was saying, as Cyrus was driving into Cadgwith yesterday to see Martha George’s husband, who was run over by the Helston coach, and she such a regular attendant at the Prayer-meeting, but in the midst of life (Jasper, don’t fidget) — well, whom should he see but Jane Ann Collins, with the finest pair of ducks, too, and costing a mere nothing. Cyrus will bear me out.”

My Uncle. “Nothing at all, my dear. Jasper, come here and talk to me. Do you know, Jasper, what happens to little boys that tell lies? You do? Something terrible, eh? Soul’s perdition, my boy; soul’s ev-er-last-ing perdition. There, come and show me the pig.”

What agonies of conscience it must have cost these two good souls thus to conspire together for benevolence, none ever knew. Nor was it less pathetic that the fraud was so hollow and transparent. I doubt not that the sin of it was washed out with self-reproving tears, and cannot think that they were shed in vain.

So the seasons passed, and we waited, till in the late summer of 1849 (my father having been away nineteen months) there came another letter to say that he was about to start for home. He had found what he sought, so he said, but could not rightly understand its value, or, indeed, make head or tail of it by himself, and dared not ask strangers to help him. Perhaps, however, when he came home, Jasper (who was such a scholar) would help him; and maybe the key would be some aid. For the rest, he had been stricken with a fever — a malady common enough in those parts — but was better, and would start in something over a week, in the Belle Fortune, a barque of some 650 tons register, homeward bound with a cargo of sugar, spices, and coffee, and having a crew of about eighteen hands, with, he thought, one or two passengers. The letter was full of strong hope and love, so that my mother, who trembled a little when she read about the fever, plucked up courage to smile again towards the close. The ship would be due about October, or perhaps November. So once more we had to resume our weary waiting, but this time with glad hearts, for we knew that before Christmas the days of anxiety and yearning would be over.

The long summer drew to a glorious and golden September, and so faded away in a veil of grey sky; and the time of watching was nearly done. Through September the skies had been without cloud, and the sea almost breathless, but with the coming of October came dirty weather and a strong sou’-westerly wind, that gathered day by day, until at last, upon the evening of October 11th, it broke into a gale. My mother for days had been growing more restless and anxious with the growing wind, and this evening had much ado to sit quietly and endure. I remembered that as the storm raged without and tore at the door-hinges, while the rain lashed and smote the tamarisk branches against the panes, I sat by her knee before the kitchen fire and read bits from my favourite “Holy War,” which, in the pauses of the storm, she would explain to me.

I was much put to it that night, I recollect, by the questionable morality at one point of Captain Credence, who in general was my favourite hero, dividing that honour with General Boanerges for the most part, but exciting more sympathy by reason of his wound — so grievously I misread the allegory, or rather saw no allegory at all. So my mother explained it to me, though all the while, poor creature, her heart was racked with terror for her Mansoul, beaten, perhaps, at that moment from its body by the fury of that awful night. Then when the fable’s meaning was explained, and my difficulty smoothed away, we fell to talking of father’s home-coming, in vain endeavours to cheat ourselves of the fears that rose again with every angry bellow of the tempest, and agreed that his ship could not possibly be due yet (rejoicing at this for the first time), but must, we feigned, be lying in a dead calm off the West Coast of Africa; until we almost laughed — God pardon us! — at the picture of his anxiety to be home while such a storm was raging at the doors of Lantrig. And then I listened to wonderful stories of the East Indies and the marvels that men found there, and wondered whether father would bring home a parrot, and if it would be as like Aunt Loveday as the parrot down at the “Lugger Inn,” at Polkimbra, and so crept upstairs to bed to dream of Captain Credence and parrots, and the “Lugger Inn” in the city of Mansoul, as though no fiends were shouting without and whirling sea and sky together in one devil’s cauldron.

How long I slept I know not; but I woke with the glare of a candle in my eyes, to see my mother, all in white, standing by the bed, and in her eyes an awful and soul-sickening horror.

“Jasper, Jasper! wake up and listen!”

I suppose I must have been still half asleep, for I lay looking at her with dazzled sight, not rightly knowing whether this vision were real or part of my strange dreams.

“Jasper, for the love of God wake up!”

At this, so full were her words of mortal fear, I shook off my drowsiness and sat up in bed, wide awake now and staring at the strange apparition. My mother was white as death, and trembling so that the candle in her hand shook to and fro, casting wild dancing shadows on the wall behind.

“Oh, Jasper, listen, listen!”

I listened, but could hear nothing save the splashing of spray and rain upon my window, and above it the voice of the storm; now moaning as a creature in pain, now rising and growing into an angry roar whereat the whole house from chimney to base shook and shuddered, and anon sinking slowly with loud sobbings and sighings as though the anguish of a million tortured souls were borne down the blast.

“Mother, I hear nothing but the storm.”

“Nothing but the storm! Oh, Jasper, are you sure you hear nothing but the storm?”

“Nothing else, mother, though that is bad enough.”

She seemed relieved a little, but still trembled sadly, and caught her breath with every fresh roar. The tempest had gathered fury, and was now raging as though Judgment Day were come, and earth about to be blotted out. For some minutes we listened almost motionless, but heard nothing save the furious elements; and, indeed, it was hard to believe that any sound on earth could be audible above such a din. At last I turned to my mother and said —

“Mother dear, it is nothing but the storm. You were thinking of father, and that made you nervous. Go back to bed — it is so cold here — and try to go to sleep. What was it you thought you heard?”

“Dear Jasper, you are a good boy, and I suppose you are right, for you can hear nothing, and I can hear nothing now. But, oh, Jasper! it was so terrible, and I seemed to hear it so plainly; though I daresay it was only my — Oh, God! there it is again! listen! listen!”

This time I heard — heard clearly and unmistakably, and, hearing, felt the blood in my veins turn to very ice.

Shrill and distinct above the roar of the storm, which at the moment had somewhat lulled, there rose a prolonged wail, or rather shriek, as of many human voices rising slowly in one passionate appeal to the mercy of Heaven, and dying away in sobbing, shuddering despair as the wild blast broke out again with the mocking laughter of all the fiends in the pit — a cry without similitude on earth, yet surely and awfully human; a cry that rings in my ears even now, and will continue to ring until I die.

I sprang from bed, forced the window open and looked out. The wind flung a drenching shower of spray over my face and thin night-dress, then tore past up the hill. I looked and listened, but nothing could be seen or heard; no blue light, nor indeed any light at all; no cry, nor gun, nor signal of distress — nothing but the howling of the wind as it swept up from the sea, the thundering of the surf upon the beach below; and all around, black darkness and impenetrable night. The blast caught the lattice from my hand as I closed the window, and banged it furiously. I turned to look at my mother. She had fallen forward on her knees, with her arms flung across the bed, speechless and motionless, in such sort that I speedily grew possessed with an awful fear lest she should be dead. As it was, I could do nothing but call her name and try to raise the dear head that hung so heavily down. Remember that I was at this time not eight years old, and had never before seen a fainting fit, so that if a sight so like to death bewildered me it was but natural. How long the fit lasted I cannot say, but at last, to my great joy, my mother raised her head and looked at me with a puzzled stare that gradually froze again to horror as recollection came back.

“Oh, Jasper, what could it be? — what could it be?”

Alas! I knew not, and yet seemed to know too well. The cry still rang in my ears and clamoured at my heart; while all the time a dull sense told me that it must have been a dream, and a dull desire bade me believe it so.

“Jasper, tell me — it cannot have been—”

She stopped as our eyes met, and the terrible suspicion grew and mastered us, numbing, freezing, paralysing the life within us. I tried to answer, but turned my head away. My mother sank once more upon her knees, weeping, praying, despairing, wailing, while the storm outside continued to moan and sob its passionate litany.

CHAPTER III.

TELLS OF TWO STRANGE MEN THAT WATCHED THE SEA UPON POLKIMBRA BEACH.

MORNINGCAMEATlast, and with the first grey light the storm had spent its fury. By degrees my mother had grown calmer, and was now sleeping peacefully upon her bed, worn out with the passion of her terror. I had long ago dressed; but even had I wished to sleep again, curiosity to know the meaning of that awful cry would have been too strong for me. So, as soon as I saw that my mother was asleep, I took my boots in my hand and crept downstairs. The kitchen looked so ghostly in the dim light, that I had almost resolved to give up my plan and go back, but reflected that it behoved me to play the man, if only to be able to cheer mother when I came back. So, albeit with my heart in my mouth, I drew back the bolt — that surely, for all my care, never creaked so loudly before or since — and stepped out into the cool air. The fresh breeze that smote my cheeks as I sat down outside to put on my boots brought me back to the everyday world — a world that seemed to make the events of the night unreal and baseless, so that I had, with boyish elasticity of temper, almost forgotten all fear as I began to descend the cliff towards Ready-Money Cove.

Before I go any further, it will be necessary to describe in a few words that part of the coast which is the scene of my story. Lantrig, as I have said, looks down upon Ready-Money Cove from the summit of Pedn-glas, its northern arm. The cove itself is narrow, running in between two scarred and rugged walls of serpentine, and terminating in a little beach of whitest sand beneath a frowning and precipitous cliff. It is easy to see its value in the eyes of smugglers, for not only is the cove difficult of observation from the sea, by reason of its straitness and the protection of its projecting arms, but the height and abruptness of its cliffs also give it seclusion from the land side. For Pedn-glas on the north rises sheer from the sea, sloping downwards a little as it runs in to join the mainland, but only enough to admit of a rough and winding path at its inmost point, while to the south the cove is guarded by a strange mass of rock that demands a somewhat longer description.

For some distance the cliff ran out as on the north side, but, suddenly breaking off as if cleft by some gigantic stroke, left a gloomy column of rock, attached to it only by an isthmus that stood some six or seven feet above high-water mark. This separate mass went by the name of Dead Man’s Rock — a name dark and dreadful enough, but in its derivation innocent, having been but Dodmen, or “the stony headland,” until common speech perverted it. For this reason I suppose I ought not to call it Dead Man’s Rock, the “Rock” being superfluous, but I give it the name by which it has always been known, being to a certain extent suspicious of those antiquarian gentlemen that sometimes, in their eagerness to restore a name, would deface a tradition.

Let me return to the rock. Under the neck that joins it to the main cliff there runs a natural tunnel, which at low water leads to the long expanse of Polkimbra Beach, with the village itself lying snugly at its further end; so that, standing at the entrance of this curious arch, one may see the little town, with the purple cliffs behind framed between walls of glistening serpentine. The rock is always washed by the sea, except at low water during the spring tides, though not reaching out so far as Pedn-glas. In colour it is mainly black as night, but is streaked with red stains that bear an awful likeness to blood; and, though it may be climbed — and I myself have done it more than once in search of eggs — it has no scrap of vegetation save where, upon its summit, the gulls build their nests on a scanty patch of grass and wild asparagus.

By the time I had crossed the cove, the western sky was brilliant with the reflected dawn. Above the cliffs behind, morning had edged the flying wrack of indigo clouds with a glittering line of gold, while the sea in front still heaved beneath the pale yellow light, as a child sobs at intervals after the first gust of passion is over-past. The tide was at the ebb, and the fresh breeze dropped as I got under the shadow of Dead Man’s Rock and looked through the archway on to Polkimbra Sands.

Not a soul was to be seen. The long stretch of beach had scarcely yet caught the distinctness of day, but was already beginning to glisten with the gathering light, and, as far as I could see, was desolate. I passed through and clambered out towards the south side of the rock to watch the sea, if perchance some bit of floating wreckage might explain the mystery of last night. I could see nothing.

Stay! What was that on the ledge below me, lying on the brink just above the receding wave? A sailor’s cap! Somehow, the sight made me sick with horror. It must have been a full minute before I dared to open my eyes and look again. Yes, it was there! The cry of last night rang again in my ears with all its supreme agony as I stood in the presence of this silent witness of the dead — this rag of clothing that told so terrible a history.

Child as I was, the silent terror of it made me faint and giddy. I shut my eyes again, and clung, all trembling, to the ledge. Not for untold bribes could I have gone down and touched that terrible thing, but, as soon as the first spasm of fear was over, I clambered desperately back and on to the sands again, as though all the souls of the drowned were pursuing me.

Once safe upon the beach, I recovered my scattered wits a little. I felt that I could not repass that dreadful rock, so determined to go across the sands to Polkimbra, and homewards around the cliffs. Still gazing at the sea as one fascinated, I made along the length of the beach. The storm had thrown up vast quantities of weed, that lined the water’s edge in straggling lines and heaps, and every heap in turn chained and riveted my shuddering eyes, that half expected to see in each some new or nameless horror.

I was half across the beach, when suddenly I looked up towards Polkimbra, and saw a man advancing towards me along the edge of the tide.

He was about two hundred yards from me when I first looked. Heartily glad to see any human being after my great terror, I ran towards him eagerly, thinking to recognise one of my friends among the Polkimbra fishermen. As I drew nearer, however, without attracting his attention — for the soft sand muffled all sound of footsteps — two things struck me. The first was that I had never seen a fisherman dressed as this man was; the second, that he seemed to watch the sea with an absorbed and eager gaze, as if expecting to find or see something in the breakers. At last I was near enough to catch the outline of his face, and knew him to be a stranger.

He wore no hat, and was dressed in a red shirt and trousers that ended in rags at the knee. His feet were bare, and his clothes clung dripping to his skin. In height he could not have been much above five feet six inches, but his shoulders were broad, and his whole appearance, cold and exhausted as he seemed, gave evidence of great strength. His tangled hair hung over a somewhat weak face, but the most curious feature about the man was the air of nervous expectation that marked, not only his face, but every movement of his body. Altogether, under most circumstances, I should have shunned him, but fear had made me desperate. At the distance of about twenty yards I stopped and called to him.

I had advanced somewhat obliquely from behind, so that at the sound of my voice he turned sharply round and faced me, but with a terrified start that was hard to account for. On seeing only a child, however, the hesitation faded out of his eyes, and he advanced towards me. As he approached, I could see that he was shivering with cold and hunger.

“Boy,” he said, in an eager and expectant voice, “what are you doing out on the beach so early?”

“Oh, sir!” I answered, “there was such a dreadful storm last night, and we — that is, mother and I — heard a cry, we thought; and oh! I have seen—”

“What have you seen?” — and he caught me by the arm with a nervous grip.

“Only a cap, sir,” I said, shrinking— “only a cap; but I climbed up on Dead Man’s Rock just now — the rock at the end of the beach — and I saw a cap lying there, and it seemed—”

“Come along and show it to me!” and he began to run over the sands towards the rock, dragging me helpless after him.

Suddenly he stopped.

“You saw nothing else?” he asked, facing round and looking into my eyes.

“No, sir.”

“Nor anybody?”

“Nobody, sir.”

“You are sure you saw nobody but me? You didn’t happen to see a tall man with black hair, and rings in his ears?”

“Oh, no, sir.”

“You’ll swear you saw no such man? Swear it now; say, ‘So help me, God, I haven’t seen anybody on the beach but you.’”

I swore it.

“Say, ‘Strike me blind if I have!’”

I repeated the words after him, and, with a hurried look around, he set off running again towards the rock. I had much ado to keep from tumbling, and even from crying aloud with pain, so tight was his grip. Fast as we went, the man’s teeth chattered and his limbs shook; his wet clothes flapped and fluttered in the cold morning breeze; his face was drawn and pinched with exhaustion, but he never slackened his pace until we reached Dead Man’s Rock. Here he stopped and looked around again.

“Is there any place to hide in hereabouts?” he suddenly asked.

The oddness of the question took me aback: and, indeed, the whole conduct of the man was so strange that I was heartily frightened, and longed greatly to run away. There was no help for it, however, so I made shift to answer —

“There is a nice cave in Ready-Money Cove, which is the next cove to this, sir. The smugglers used to use it because it was hidden so, but—”

I suppose my eyes told him that I was wondering why he should want to hide, for he broke in again —

“Well, show me this cap. Out on the face of this rock, you say — what’s the name? Dead Man’s Rock, eh? Well, it’s an ugly name enough, and an ugly rock enough!” he added, with a shiver.

I climbed up the rock, and he after me, until we gained the ledge where I had stood before. I looked down. The cap was still lying there, and the tide had ebbed still further.

My companion looked for a moment, then, with a short cry, scrambled quickly down and picked it up. To me it had looked like any ordinary sailor’s cap, but he examined it, fingered it, and pulled it about, muttering all the time, so that I imagined it must be his own, though at a loss to know why he made so much of recovering it. At last he climbed up again, holding it in his hands, and still muttering to himself —

“His cap, sure enough; nothing in it, though. But he was much too clever a devil. However, he’s gone right enough; I knew he must, and this proves it, curse him! Well, I’ll wear it. He’s not left behind as much as he thought, but mad enough he’d be to think I was his heir. I’ll wear it for old acquaintance’ sake. Sit down, boy,” he said aloud to me; “we’re safe here, and can’t be seen. I want to talk with you.”

The rocky ledge on which we stood was about seven feet long and three or four in breadth. On one side of it ran down the path by which we had ascended; the other end broke off with a sheer descent into the sea of some forty feet in the present state of the tide. High above us rose an unscaleable cliff; at our feet lay a short descent to the ledge on which the cap had rested, and after that another precipice. It was not a pleasant position in which to be left alone with this strange companion, but I was helpless, and perhaps the trace of weakness and a something not altogether evil in his face, gave me some courage. Little enough it was, however, and in mere desperation I sat down on the side by the path. My companion flung himself down on the other side, with his legs dangling over the ledge, and so sat for a minute or two watching the sea.

The early sun was now up, and its oblique rays set the waves dancing with a myriad points of fire. Above us the rock cast its shadow into the green depths below, making them seem still greener and deeper. To my left I could see the shining sands of Polkimbra, still desolate, and, beyond, the purple line of cliffs towards Kynance; on my right the rock hid everything from view, except the open sea and the gulls returning after the tempest to inspect and pry into the fresh masses of weed and wreckage. I looked timidly at my companion. He was still gazing out towards the sea, apparently deep in thought. The cap was on his head, and his legs still dangled, while he muttered to himself as if unconscious of my presence. Presently, however, he turned towards me.

“Got anything to eat?”

I had forgotten it in my terror, but I had, as I crossed the kitchen, picked up a hunch of bread to serve me for breakfast. This, with a half-apologetic air, as if to deprecate its smallness, I produced from my pocket and handed to him. He snatched it without a word, and ate it ravenously, keeping his eye fixed upon me in the most embarrassing way.

“Got any more?”

I was obliged to confess I had not, though sorely afraid of displeasing him. He turned still further towards me, and stared without a word, then suddenly spoke again.

“What is your name?”

Truly this man had the strangest manner of questioning. However, I answered him duly —

“Jasper Trenoweth.”

“God in heaven! What?”

He had started forward, and was staring at me with a wild surprise. Unable to comprehend why my name should have this effect on him, but hopeless of understanding this extraordinary man’s behaviour, I repeated the two words.

His face had turned to an ashy white, but he slowly took his eyes off me and turned them upon the sea, almost as though afraid to meet mine. There was a pause.

“Father by any chance answering to the name of Ezekiel — Ezekiel Trenoweth?”

Even in my fright I can remember being struck with this strange way of speaking, as though my father were a dog; but a new fear had gained possession of me. Dreading to hear the answer, yet wildly anxious, I cried —

“Oh, yes. Do you know him? He was coming home from Ceylon, and mother was so anxious; and then, what with the storm last night and the cry that we heard, we were so frightened! Oh! do you know — do you think—”

My words died away in terrified entreaty; but he seemed not to hear me. Still gazing out on the sea, he said —

“Sailed in the Belle Fortune, barque of 600 tons, or thereabouts, bound for Port of Bristol? Oh, ay, I knew him — knew him well. And might this here place be Lantrig?”

“Our house is on the cliff above the next cove,” I replied. “But, oh! please tell me if anything has happened to him!”

“And why should anything have happened to Ezekiel Trenoweth? That’s what I want to know. Why should anything have happened to him?”

He was still watching the waves as they danced and twinkled in the sun. He never looked towards me, but plucked with nervous fingers at his torn trousers. The gulls hovered around us with melancholy cries, as they wheeled in graceful circles and swooped down to their prey in the depths at our feet. Presently he spoke again in a meditative, far-away voice —

“Ezekiel Trenoweth, fair, broad, and six foot two in his socks; why should anything have happened to him?”

“But you seem to know him, and know the ship he sailed in. Tell me — please tell me what has happened. Did you sail in the same ship? And, if so, what has become of it?”

“I sailed,” said my companion, still examining the horizon, “from Ceylon on the 12th of July, in the ship Mary Jane, bound for Liverpool. Consequently, if Ezekiel Trenoweth sailed in the Belle Fortune we couldn’t very well have been in the same ship, and that’s logic,” said he, turning to me for the first time with a watery and uncertain smile, but quickly withdrawing his eyes to their old occupation.

But he had lifted a great load from my heart, so that for very joy at knowing my father was not among the crew of the Mary Jane I could not speak for a time, but sat watching his face, and thinking how I should question him next.

“Sailed in the Mary Jane, bound for Liverpool,” he repeated, his face twitching slightly, and his hands still plucking at his trousers, “sailed along with — never mind who. And this boy’s Ezekiel Trenoweth’s son, and I knew him; knew him well.” His voice was husky, and he seemed to have something in his throat, but he went on: “Well, it’s a strange world. To think of him being dead!” looking at the cap — which he had taken off his head.

“What! Father dead?”

“No, my lad, t’other chap: him as this cap belonged to. Ah, he was a devil, he was. Can’t fancy him dead, somehow; seemed as though the water wasn’t made as could have drowned him; always said he was born for the gallows, and joked about it. But he’s gone this time, and I’ve got his cap. ’Tis a hard thought that I should outlive him; but, curse him, I’ve done it, and here’s his cap for proof — why, what the devil is the lad staring at?”

During his muttered soliloquy I had turned for a moment to look across Polkimbra Beach, when suddenly my eyes were arrested and my heart again set violently beating by a sight that almost made me doubt whether the events of the morning were not still part of a wild and disordered dream. For there, at about fifty yards’ distance, and advancing along the breakers’ edge, was another man, dressed like my companion, and also watching the sea.

“What’s the matter, boy? Speak, can’t you?”

“It’s a man.”

“A man! Where?”

He made a motion forwards to look over the edge, but checked himself, and crouched down close against the rock.

“Lie down!” he murmured in a hoarse whisper. “Lie down low and look over.”

My arm was clutched as though by a vice. I sank down flat, and peered over the edge.

“It’s a man,” I said, “not fifty yards off, and coming this way. He has on a red shirt, and is watching the sea just as you did. I don’t think that he saw us.”

“For the Lord’s sake don’t move. Look; is he tall and dark?”

His terrified excitement was dreadful. I thought I should have had to shriek with pain, so tightly he clutched me, but found voice to answer —

“Yes, he seems tall, and dark too, though I can’t well see at—”

“Has he got earrings?”

“I can’t see; but he walks with a stoop, and seems to have a sword or something slung round his waist.”

“God defend us! that’s he! Curse him, curse him! Lie down — lie down, I say! It’s death if he catches sight of us.”

We cowered against the rock. My companion’s face was livid, and his lips worked as though fingers were plucking at them, but made no sound. I never saw such abject, hopeless terror. We waited thus for a full minute, and then I peered over the ledge again.

He was almost directly beneath us now, and was still watching the sea. At his side hung a short sheath, empty. I could not well see his face, but the rings in his ears glistened in the sunlight.

I drew back cautiously, for my companion was plucking at my jacket.

“Listen,” he said — and his hoarse voice was sunk so low that I could scarcely catch his words— “Listen. If he catches us it’s death — death to me, but perhaps he may let you off, though he’s a cold-blooded, murderous devil. However, there’s no saying but you might get off. Any way, it’ll be safest for you to have this. Here, take it quick, and stow it away in your jacket, so as he can’t see it. For the love of God, look sharp!”

He took something out of a pocket inside his shirt, and forced it into my hands. What it was I could not see, so quickly he made me hide it in my jacket. But I caught a glimpse of something that looked like brass, and the packet was hard and heavy.

“It’s death, I say; but you may be lucky. If he does for me, swear you’ll never give it up to him. Take your Bible oath you’ll never do that. And look here: if I’m lucky enough to get off, swear you’ll give it back. Swear it. Say, ‘Strike me blind!’”

He clutched me again. Shaking and trembling, I gave the promise.

“And look, here’s a letter; put it away and read it after. If he does for me — curse him! — you keep what I’ve given you. Yes, keep it; it’s my last Will and Testament, upon my soul. But you ought to go half shares with little Jenny; you ought, you know. You’ll find out where she lives in that there letter. But you’ll never give it up to him. Swear it. Swear it again.”

Again I promised.

“Mind you, if you do, I’ll haunt you. I’ll curse you dying, and that’s an awful thing to happen to a man. Look over again. He mayn’t be coming — perhaps he’ll go through to the next beach, and then we’ll run for it.”

Again I peered over, but drew back as if shot; for just below me was a black head with glittering earrings, and its owner was steadily coming up the path towards us.

CHAPTER IV.

TELLS HOW A SONG WAS SUNG AND A KNIFE DRAWN UPON DEAD MAN’S ROCK.

THEREWASNO