Aimlessly I wandered on while the evening shadows gathered around, and the sea sobbed its sad song, telling me of the storm that was surely coming. As chance or fate would have it, I passed by the cottage of old Deborah Teague, and there in the grey twilight I saw her, with Mally Udy, quietly smoking. They looked up at my approach, but spoke not. A low chuckle escaped both of them, however, but I had no heart to speak to them. Still, their gruesome appearance added to the dark feelings that possessed me, and the dark shadows became more real.

At length I made my way back to the house, and although I was its lawful owner, and although every inch of land for a long distance around was mine, I felt that I was a stranger and an interloper. It was cold, too, cold as a vault, and as I passed along, the stone paved hall made a clanking noise which echoed through the silent rooms. I heard the wind howling too, and the sea began to roar, and when this was so there was always a ghostly, weird feeling about our old grey house.

As if drawn on by a spell, I made my way to the library, and on arriving there found my mother sitting alone.

"I have been waiting for you, Roger," said my mother quietly. "I felt there were some things about which I ought to speak to-night, and so would not retire until I saw you."

"And what about the girls, mother?" I said. "Where are they, and where is Wilfred?"

"They are all gone to bed. It has been a terrible day for them all, especially for Ruth, and so I sent them off. Besides, we must speak alone to-night."

"Speak alone, mother? I thought everything was settled. I am weary, and desire no business to-night. I have had much to do for three days, and have more to do to-morrow. I must rest."

"There is such a thing as duty as well as pleasure," said my mother severely. "You are now Trewinion's lord, and surely it is your duty to care about the happiness of others. Besides, a mother should ever be able to command her son?"

"Just so, mother," I said wearily. "Tell me what you wish, and I will do my best to obey you."

"Roger," she said in an altered tone, "you have had the reputation of being kind-hearted and generous. I know you have often thought me hard upon you; but if I have been so, it was only from the desire to make you gentle as well as generous."

I looked upon her in surprise, and in spite of my sorrow my heart bounded with hope. Perhaps my father's death had destroyed all hard feelings, and now I should know the meaning of a mother's love.

"Mother," I said, "I have been rough and harsh. I'll try to be a better son, and perhaps we may be happy in the future."

A sharp spasm, as if of pain, crossed her face, but she spoke naturally.

"It may be," she went on, "that what I shall say may hurt you, but I only want to be a kind, loving mother."

My heart warmed more than ever. "I am sure that is your desire, mother," I said.

She was silent for a minute, and again I saw the look of of pain which crossed her face.

"Roger," she burst out, "what I have to say nearly kills me," and she burst into a flood of tears.

I went to her side and soothed her.

"Don't grieve, mother," I said, "and don't say anything that will give you pain."

"No, no, it's not that," she said, and then cried out, "I can't tell him, I can't."

"Don't, mother," I cried. "Wait until you are stronger, and then tell me. These few days have been terrible for you. I have been thinking too much about myself. I have been remembering that I have lost my father, but have forgotten that you have lost your husband. I know it's terrible, mother, but dear father is happy now, and Wilfred and I will take care of you."

At the mention of Wilfred's name her face changed. A look of determination came upon her face, and her hands clenched nervously.

"Roger," she said, "I am calm now, and hard as it is to tell you I will do so."

I sat down before her, wondering what was coming.

"You remember the night of your—your father's—death?"

"Yes, mother."

"He said it was his wish, and the wish of Mr. Morton that you should wed Ruth."

"Yes," I said, my heart beating violently.

"Roger, that must never be!"

"Why?"

I spoke harshly, for my heart became hard as a stone, and yet it seemed to grow too big for my bosom.

"Because," she answered, her voice trembling as she did so, "she loathes, shudders at the thought of marrying you."

"How dare you say this?" I cried angrily, and yet I knew her words were true. Ruth's face had told me the same story only that very evening.

"If you wish to drive her mad, kill her, murder her!" went on my mother, "ask her to do as her father wishes."

"What is there in me to drive her mad, or to murder her?" I cried. "I have always been kind to her."

"Nothing, nothing, Roger. She loves you as a brother. You have been very good to her. None of us forget that twice you saved her life."

"Then why do you say she loathes me?"

"Can you not see what I mean? She does not loathe you as a brother; but she loathes the thought of your being her husband, and were you to insist on a marriage, you would kill her!"

"Why? You say she loves me as a brother; why, then, should the other thought be so terribly abhorrent? Could she not in time learn to give me more than a brother's love?"

"Never!"

"Why?"

"Because she loves another!"

"Another! Who?"

"Can you not guess?"

Guess! Ah, yes; I could indeed. Had I not seen it for weeks? My mother need not tell me more. I knew perfectly well.

"Surely you have seen that they have been lovers from childhood," she went on. "She has been all in all to him, while—well, you must have seen how she regarded him. He did not speak to her about it, however, until he came home from Oxford, and then, on the day of his arrival, he told her what he had felt for years."

"And she?"

"She told him—that—what in short he had been longing to hear, and, although we knew it not, they became betrothed."

It was what I had thought, it did not surprise me, and yet I felt sick and giddy. It was some time before I could speak, and then I could only stammer out:

"And she promised to be his wife?"

My mother nodded.

No words can describe what I felt, for never until then did I realise how I loved her, or what pain it was for me to lose her.

"Do you love Ruth very much, Roger?" asked mother.

"Love her!" I cried, "love her! I would die for her."

"And she loves Wilfred, and would never be happy away from him."

I fought it down after a while; crushed all my envy, jealousy, and hatred—for hate did possess me for a time—and then turned to my mother again.

"Let Ruth and Wilfred be happy," I said, "I shall put in no claim, her happiness is more important than mine."

"They cannot," said my mother.

"Cannot!" I cried. "Why?"

"Because it was her father's wish that she should marry Trewinion's heir, and she will do it, though she dies the next day."

"I do not understand."

"You know how much she has ever thought of her father. No one I ever saw loved a parent, or a parent's memory, as much as she loved her father's. And now, although she would have to sacrifice everything dear to her heart, she will be true to his wish."

"But I will not have it so. I will not call for the sacrifice."

"Then you are hindering her father's wish from being fulfilled, and you will still be keeping Ruth and Wilfred apart."

"But what can I do?"

My mother was silent.

Then I saw her meaning. My very existence was the great evil. I was Trewinion's heir, whom her father wished her to marry, and yet she hated the thought of it; while she could not marry the man she loved because of her father's will. Meanwhile she was suffering a terrible torture—and I was causing it.

I tried to look at the whole matter fairly and boldly. What were the alternatives? I was Roger Trewinion's eldest son, and if I allowed my father's and Mr. Morton's will to be carried out, I doomed my darling to a loathsome life—a living death, while, though I should attain the object most dear to me, I should live in hell, the hell of being with a woman who loved another man. If I refused to marry her, things would be nearly as bad. I should still be dooming her to misery; she would not marry my brother, I should never be free from the thought that I was keeping others from happiness, while the two houses of Trewinion and Morton would not be united.

Slowly it came at first! Then the full meaning of the thought flashed upon me! I could not do it, I could not! And yet it was the only way.

Renounce my name, my possessions, my identity! Go away and never return!

That was the alternative, the only way by which the houses could be united, the only way Ruth could be happy.

"I see what you mean, mother," I cried out at last, "but I must have time, I cannot decide in a moment. I must speak to Ruth, to Wilfred."

"Why speak to Ruth? You will only give her more pain. You spoke this afternoon. Why cause her to bear more than she is already bearing?"

Ruth had told her, then, and doubtless told her, too, what were her feelings towards Wilfred! I saw the truth, the force of her words, and yet it was very hard.

"I must think, mother," I said. "I know you love Wilfred the better; I know you think him far more fit to be the head of the house than I; you think I ought to make the sacrifice, but I must have time to think."

"How long, Roger? The day after to-morrow Ruth leaves Trewinion Manor."

"Leave! Why?"

"Need you ask? She cannot wait here in the house with the man she thinks she has to marry, when the thought of such a thing is terrible."

I was driving Ruth away then. Not only was I giving her pain and sorrow, but because of me she was going to leave the only home wherein she could be happy. It was true she could return to her own home, which had been kept in repair, but I knew she did not intend going there until she came of age.

"She does not wish to be with me longer than she thinks she is forced by her father's will?" I said.

"She knows she is not expected to marry you until she is twenty-one. That will not be for some time, and so she is going away."

This was hardest of all to bear, it drove me to madness. Her detestation of me was so great that she determined to shun me.

"Just one word more, mother. Have you spoken to me because of Ruth's desire, or with her sanction?"

A strange look flashed across my mother's face; then she said, "Roger, never think I can answer that question."

My brain seemed on fire, and I could not tell what to do, I could not decide. I simply rushed out of the room saying, "You will soon know."

I made my way to my room upstairs, and in passing along a corridor I saw a light in Mr. Inch's room. Immediately I knocked at his door, and on receiving permission, entered. I found him busy with a lot of papers.

"Is it correct that you and Miss Morton are going to leave us, Mr. Inch?" I said.

He bowed, and said, quietly but distinctly, "It is so decided."

"Might I ask the reason for this abrupt departure?" I said. "I have heard nothing about it until to-night."

He looked at me for a moment steadily; then he said,

"It is not for me to say; surely you should know that it is next to impossible for her to remain here now."

He also had told me in words as plain as words could tell what she felt. I must think, think alone. I found my way to my bedroom, but my mind would not work there. I must get out under the broad sky, where all was free. So again I left the house, went away towards the highest point on the headland, where, hundreds of feet below, the waves were lashing themselves into foam as they broke upon the great rugged rocks.



CHAPTER XII

NIGHT

"And Esau hated Jacob. . . . And Esau said in his heart, the days of mourning for my father are at hand; then will I slay my brother Jacob."—The Book of Genesis.

It did not rain, but the wind blew a wild hurricane. Now and then it seemed to cease, and I could hear a kind of moaning sound which the sea made, but again it came as though it would sweep away the great rocks that grimly defied the fury of the elements. I did not mind this, everything accorded with my feelings. I found ease in breasting the storm, I breathed more freely when the wind blew its loudest.

By and by the thunders began to roar and the lightnings to flash, still no rain fell, so I did not mind.

But it was terrible to be alone on such a night, and with such a problem to solve. For hours I think I was mad. I am sure that in my frenzy my voice could be heard above the wind and wave. Nothing, however, made me forget what lay before me. The future ever haunted me, and turned the thunderings of the wave into derisive mocking laughter.

Now and then I would stand and look at the old house, which I could dimly see in the stormlight, and when I did so it became dearer than ever to me. It was the home of my fathers, the place wherein they had died, and my heart clave unto it. I felt proud of my name—proud that I was born the representative of my family, and to give it up seemed like pulling at my heart-strings.

And thus I was tempted in the night; I would maintain my position as Trewinion's heir. I would wed Ruth. I would brave everything and carry out the wish of my father. Ruth did not love me now, but she might learn to love me in time, besides, I could not give her up. I loved her—loved her supremely. All the strength of my nature, moulded largely by wild surroundings and an uncultured people, was given to her. I did not love tamely. It was no tender passion I felt, it was a mad, passionate adoration. I can call it nothing less. Fer her I could brave danger, difficulty, death; but I could not give her up.

And I would not!

Why should I? I was master, I would remain so. I would maintain my rights. I would let Wilfred know that I was the elder brother and he the younger. And Ruth should be mine. My father wished it, and so did hers, and so I would claim her. I would take my father's place and reign righteously. I would be a pattern to the neighbouring gentry, and my name should be respected far and wide. This was what every eldest son of my race save one had done—that is, they had all claimed their position, and so would I. Wilfred's happiness! Well, Wilfred had always defied me and treated me as an inferior. Wilfred must take care of himself; he must be thankful that I gave him the annuity my father had mentioned. I could not help being born the first; besides, what had I to do with his happiness? What right had he to seek to win Ruth's affections? Doubtless he who was so friendly with Mr. Inch would know her father's wish. Thus he must have acted like a sneak to have sought what could not be fairly given to him. And Ruth! Did I not love her, would I not humour her every wish, grant her every desire, and devote my life to make her happy?

And mother?

She had never cared for me, never trusted me, never treated me as a son, never told me of her intentions. I did not know, indeed, if she were my mother. Why, then, should I trouble about her? If need be she could go and live with Wilfred; at any rate, I would be Trewinion's lord, and maintain my rights.

Then the other side presented itself. If this were carried out what would be the result? I should see Ruth suffering, pining day by day. She would loathe my presence, she would shudder at my embrace. By my selfishness I should wreck her life. I should be her murderer. Then what happiness should I have? Could I be happy while the woman I loved was being cursed by my presence?

Then I put it this way: If I went away—not that I should, but considering it suppositiously merely—if I went away, what would be the result? Wilfred would claim to be master; he would be Trewinion's heir; he would wed Ruth, who would gladly join her life to his—for were they not affianced lovers?—my mother would rejoice, and all would be happy. My black shadow would be taken from their lives, and they could for ever live in the sunshine.

The picture seemed bright, and for a moment the thought of it gave me pleasure. Then I remembered that I should be leaving Ruth for ever; I should be leaving my old home for ever; I should not die in the great chamber where all my ancestors had died. I should be a wanderer, a vagrant, homeless and friendless.

Besides, what could I do? Strong and hardy I was, as a man could well be, but I had no trade or profession. That is the curse which befalls eldest sons who expect fortunes; if anything happens to them they have no profession on which to rely. What did I know? Something of the management of an estate, but not enough for a steward, nor would anyone hire a steward without an assurance as to his abilities and past career. I was not fit for that, and if I went away the name of Roger Trewinion must be sunk for ever, so that I could not seek such a post. The only thing I could say I was fit for was the post of a sailor. If I went away I must try and get a place in a trading vessel.

I thought of all this, but would not confess to myself that I was seriously thinking of leaving my home, the sacrifice was too great.

Meanwhile the storm was raging, and flakes of foam were blown against my face. Then I felt some raindrops falling, and the sky became more lowering.

I would go in and go to bed, and on the morrow I would speak to Ruth.

Then came the moment of final struggle. Ruth was leaving the house because of me, because she loathed the thought of being my wife, and because she wished to be free from me as long as she could.

This thought took away much of my interest in home, as well as my desire to remain among the scenes of my early childhood. It chilled those warm feelings of attachment for the homestead, and for the people who had become a part of my life.

Ruth leave because of me! And yet it was because of Ruth I wanted to stay. I would look at the matter again. I wanted to make Ruth happy; but what was the course I must take in order to do that? The great hindrance to her happiness was myself. I was the black cloud that hid her sun. If I did not exist her joy would be complete, for then she would be free to wed the man she loved.

And while I was fighting this battle the storm beat furiously upon me. Never shall I forget how the wind blew, nor how the waves became more and more maddened. Dimly I could see the great mountains of waters, as with thundering roars they hurled themselves on the rockbound coast and became churned into foam. How stern and pitiless nature was, how careless of all human joys or sorrows! It was well I had my dying father's assurance that God was love, or I could never have believed it then. To me there was an almighty devil ruling the universe. A being who hated us, and sought our destruction.

I was however glad of the storm. It helped me. I had to resist, to exert myself. It gave play to my active nature; it kept me from succumbing to the dark cloud of sorrow in which I was enveloped.

I know not how, nor can I tell the exact moment when the decision was made; but, in the end, I decided to leave the old homestead and to give Ruth happiness. I claim no virtue for my act. There was not much in it after all. I should never be happy if I remained at home; nay, Trewinion Manor would be hell to me, while spectres that I should constantly be raising would haunt my life. Besides, I might find some relief away. I would go, I would roam the world all over, and, perhaps, away from the scene of my misery, I should find peace. My heart was breaking, and it was not worth while for me to add misery to that which was already felt by those by whom I was surrounded.

It may be said by those who read this that my act was one of great self-denial; but if it was it brought none of that peace and inward satisfaction which are said to come from such deeds. My misery, if possible, became more intense, and the storm seemed to mock me with shrieks and howls of derision.

With a great weight on my heart I crept back to the house, and slowly went to my room. When should I go?

"To-morrow" was the response of my weaker nature. "Get a good night's rest, make an impressive scene before Ruth, and go away with a flourish of trumpets." But that would not do. I doubt whether I could have had the heart to go away in the daylight if I saw Ruth near me. Besides, I did not want to go away openly; I would leave in secret, when no eye should see me, and when no one should be able to trace me. When should I go?

"Now!"

That was the answer of my stronger and sterner nature. Leave in the night, alone, and at once. Never look at the sweet face of Elizabeth and Katherine, never be weakened by the beauty of Ruth, never be shaken in my resolve by the patronising pride of Wilfred or the unloving look of my mother. Delay would be dangerous. On the one hand were influences leading me to stay, by making me defiant, hard, and bitter; on the other, by making me weak and yielding. I would go at once then.

Where?

That mattered not for the time. I would leave the house at once, and decide my course when once away and alone.

Should I let any one know what had become of me, should I write a letter to Ruth, or Wilfred, or mother? I dared not. To do that would weaken me at once. Still, it would be better that I should let them all know that I was gone away, never to return.

I clothed myself in a strong plain suit of clothes, which I had used when shooting on our boggy rough moors, put twenty guineas in my pocket, and then went down into the library again. I did not look around me and think of the hours I had spent there. If I did Ruth could not be happy, for I should not have sufficient courage to remove my black shadow from her life. I went to the writing desk and began to try to say good-bye. That I found I could not do, so I simply wrote the words:

"From this time Roger Trewinion is no more. He ceases to be so that Wilfred can be Trewinion's heir and Ruth can be happy. Let Wilfred do his duty, or Roger Trewinion may come to life again."

That was all, and after I had written it I felt more calm. Then I took a stout oak stick, on which was engraven my father's name, and one which he usually took when out walking and went away from the house, in my heart bidding it good-bye for ever.

I walked rapidly northwards, keeping close to the cliffs. It was now early morning, but the sun had not yet risen. The black clouds had passed away, but the sea forgot not its anger, and still broke furiously upon the shore.

I must have walked five miles when I saw signs of day. The sky changed from nearly black into a sombre grey, while the sea became like unto the sky. The birds creeping from their night resting-places, began to sing, and from the farms by which I passed I heard the sound of the cocks crowing.

On I tramped, anxious to get away from the neighbourhood where I was known, the light becoming clearer and clearer as I went, until I could see the outline of the coast. Then before me I saw a great jutting headland, similar to the one on which our house was built, thence I should be able to see my old home.

By the time I got there it was broad day, I think about five o'clock, and wistfully I scanned the coast. Yes, there was Trewinion clear and plain, although miles away. The grey, rugged walls stood out distinctly and striking, while the tower lifted its head proudly into the sky. And this home I had given up. Back from it stretched broad acres that were mine, and these I had renounced for a woman.

"Treat her well, Wilfred, or by the Creator of us both you shall curse the day on which you were born."

I muttered this between my closed teeth, for at that moment I knew I hated him.

Then I remembered the Trewinion's curse.

Do I believe in supernatural agencies, in witchcraft? Am I prey to superstitious fancies? I cannot answer. The unseen world is so linked with the seen that they are but one world. I cannot tell where to draw the line between natural and supernatural. To me the two are one. But this I know; the moment I realised that I hated Wilfred, I was cursed with a terrible curse. Evil passions surged within me, I planned dark deeds, murder did not seem hateful, and hell far worse than that which I had felt when I had been struggling on the cliff was now my doom.

A bottomless pit! I was in it. A pit of slavery to evil desire, of savage joy which was not joy, at the thought of evil. This was where I was.

He, the miserable sneak, had robbed me of my love, my all. And yet I could not go back. The house was mine, the lands were mine, yet I could not claim them. I was bound, yet I could not see the fetters which chained me.

Does a curse like unto mine follow the footsteps of men who hate, or does the Trewinion race stand alone. Be that as it may, I felt cursed, the clear fountains of my manhood were gone. Roger Trewinion was more demon than man. For hatred poisons the soul.

And yet I loved Ruth. This, I think, was the power that kept me from going back and doing evil, and yet this love did not make me hate the less. Nay, it made hatred more intense.

Long I stood alone in the grey morning, watching the bleak house that stood in the distance, while the sea moaned and sobbed miserably, as if to add another feeling to the misery of my heart. I seemed riveted there. I looked at the five prongs of the "Devil's Tooth" like one entranced, and thought of their associations. I saw the place where I had saved Ruth, when she had fallen from the cliffs. I fancied I detected the place where the witches' cave stood, and I remembered all that had been said.

"Ah," I cried, "Deborah Teague is indeed a true prophet. Dark omens have a meaning. I am indeed homeless, friendless, forsaken, and the Trewinion curse is come. I go now, never to return, while my love is given to another, and my power is taken by my younger brother. Yet seemingly I have done nothing to merit this."

For a time I was mad. I shook my fist and called down curses upon Wilfred and my mother. I prayed that they should never have rest or joy, and that the ghost of my father should haunt them. And yet I could give no real reason for this, only that my heart was black.

I felt I must go on. I must get farther away from the place where my life had been spent; so I gave one look more, one long hungering look that was full of agony, and as at last I turned my eyes away, my heart strings seemed to snap.

Then I set my teeth together, clasped my stick firmly, and, with lowering brow and a black heart, trudged wearily northward.



CHAPTER XIII

A WANDERER

I went on heedlessly for a mile or so. I was stunned, and felt strange and giddy; but by and by I felt I must come to such decision in regard to my course. So I struck into the main road, and continued my journey northward. By this time I felt the warmth and brightness of the day. The sun was now clear of the horizon, and revealed the glittering dewdrops that hung on grass and flower. The majestic hills rose on either side of me, the waving cornfields presented a rich and beautiful appearance.

The glories of nature did not soften me, however. My heart was still hard with hatred and disappointment, and I was too busy with my sad thoughts to decide what to do, or to what town to steer.

Presently a man met me, the first I had seen since I started. He was a farm labourer, taking his oxen to the fields to plough, and on looking at my watch I found that I had been walking for about six hours, and that I must be at least twenty miles from home. The man touched his hat, although I was sure he did not know me. Evidently my dress was not that of a workman. If I was to get a place as a workman, I must dress like one.

"Where does this road lead to?" I asked of the man.

"Dun knaw, zur, I'm sure, but they do zay as 'ow it do go to Waadbrudge."

"Wadebridge, eh? Do you know how far it is away?"

"No, zur, I doan't, for I never bin more'n vive mile away from Treloggas, which is my home, zur, but my maaster es a bit of a traveller, zur. He've bin to Bodmun, and he do zay as 'ow Waadbrudge es fifteen mile on."

"Fifteen miles. Is it a good road?"

"Oi, iss, zur. You do git into the turnpike dreckly (directly), and then the roads sa smoove as a booard."

"And is there a publichouse anywhere near?"

"Iss, zur, 'bout three mile on thurs a kiddley-wink (beershop) that do belong to Tommy Dain, he as can raise the devil, you do knaw, zur."

This helped me to decide what to do. Wadebridge was a little seaport, and there I should perhaps get on board a vessel that would take me right away from home. Then, perhaps, when I was away on the rolling seas, I should forget my disappointments, and find ease from the gnawing, bitter hatred that had gripped my heart.

Inspired by this thought I hurried on rapidly. I was beginning to feel hungry and faint after my long walk, so was glad to know of the inn, even although Tommy Dean, the landlord, possessed such powers.

Arrived there I had a good breakfast of ham and eggs, after which Tommy brought out a tankard of ale. I was about to drink it when I reflected. But for drink my father's horse would not have been frightened and I should not now have been fatherless. But for drink I should not now be homeless and friendless. Drink had deprived me of my dearest, best friend, and I would have none of it. So much did this impress me at the time that I made up my mind never to touch intoxicant again; at any rate, until I saw sufficient reason to alter my mind.

After breakfast I felt that the twelve miles which lay before me were as nothing. In three hours, if nothing happened, I should be in Wadebridge.

Nothing of importance happened on the way. Milestone after milestone I passed wearily. I had little object or hope in life. I had sacrificed my all for the sake of others, and it brought me no happiness. When I reached Wadebridge my interest was somewhat aroused. My knowledge of towns was very limited. I had only paid two or three visits to our county towns, which are, to say the least of them, small and to some extent uninteresting. Twice I had been to Truro, and once to Falmouth; thus when I came to Wadebridge, I was somewhat excited. Such a thing seems strange to me now, when I remember the facts of the case. Wadebridge was only a little village composed of one street, which led down to the river Wade, over which a bridge is built, hence the name of the port.

There is a curious story among the Wadebridge people as to how their bridge was built. Many years ago there was a ferry across the river, but it was the frequent custom of farmers to ride their horses or drive their cattle across it when the tide was low, but often men and beasts were lost in the quicksands formed in the rising tide. After one sad accident of this sort, the Rev. Mr. Lovebone, the vicar of Wadebridge, determined that a bridge should be built, and after great pains and struggling it was finished with seventeen arches of stone. But in spite of their great labour, disappointment and defeat followed in their track, for pier after pier was lost in the sands. A "fair structure" was to be seen in the evening, but in the morning nothing was left. Mr. Lovebone was ready to give up in despair; but one night he dreamed that an angel came with a flock of sheep, that he sheared them, let the wool fall in to the water, and speedily built the bridge on the wool. Then the holy man awoke with a new idea. He appealed to the farmers, who sent him all the wool they had, which was put into sacks; these were placed thickly on the sands, and on these piers were built. Thus the wisdom of the angel of the dream was manifest, for the bridge remains to this day.

The harbour is not very wide or large at Wadebridge, and vessels of large dimensions can only come in when the tide is high.

The first thing I did on my arrival was to go to a small shop where seafaring apparel was sold. The owner looked at me curiously, as I asked for a general rig out, but showed me what I wanted nevertheless. I was not long in making a bargain, and then asked for permission to change my attire.

"Ain't bin doin' nothin' wrong, I hope?" he said.

"Not to my knowledge," I replied.

"Cause you do'ant look much like a chap as is used to wearin' a sailor's clothes," he said.

"No," I answered. "What do I look like, then?"

He looked at my hands, then at my shooting suit, and again at my face, and replied slowly:

"Why, you do look look like a passen's son as hev got into trouble and be now runnin' away; ed'n that about right, now?"

"Not exactly," I said, "but I'm sure you'll allow me to change my clothes, won't you?"

He gave an unwilling consent at length, and I confess that, when I had put on a rough suit of seaman's clothes, I hardly knew myself. I went across the bridge to the little village of Egloshayle, and walked towards Slades Bridge, which lay in the direction of Bodmin.

"Now," I said to myself, "you are no longer Roger Trewinion, but a common fisherman, who is desirous of going to sea. Forget the past. Forget that you are the heir to a fine estate, forget that you have given up all for love."

But I could not do this. True, there was a sense in which all seemed like a dream, so that the past was misty; but above all was the fact of my great and burning love for Ruth, a love so intense as to lead me to sacrifice everything that she might be happy with the man whom she loved, and whom I hated, although he was my brother.

The thought was madness. My sacrifice seemed madness, and once I thought of going back again. That, however, was soon banished, for although my coming away might be the action of one who did not know what he was doing, to go back would be to strike despair and anguish into the heart of Ruth, and that would be hell for me.

No, I had fought that battle. I had made Ruth happy. I should soon become as nothing to them, and thus Wilfred and my mother would have their own way, and be joyous because I was no more. That was something, and yet I was sure that Wilfred had schemed for such an end. What definite reason I had for this I could not tell, but I was sure of it, and I hated him. True, I had gone away freely, and yet I had been driven away; things had been so arranged that I could not stay to be a skeleton at the feast, a hindrance to all joy.

I ceased to think about it at length, and tried to bring myself into harmony with my surroundings. What should I call myself? I could not ask for a sailor's position as Roger Trewinion, and yet I did not like to give up my name. Finally I decided to call myself Richard Tretheway. It was a very common name, and by this name I should still retain my initials. Where I came from was a matter of little importance; there were lots of little fishing villages all the way down the coast; so I settled on one near my old home, and made my way to the riverside where some vessels lay. The captain of one of them struck my attention in a minute. He stood quietly watching some men who were loading the boat with corn. He was not swearing or bullying as some of the others were, and I determined to speak to him.

"And what may you want, my lad?" he said as I went up to him.

"A job, sir," I said, with a strong Cornish accent.

He looked at me keenly. "What can you do?" he said.

I named the work I could do on a ship.

"Let's have a look at your hands?" he said.

I showed him my hands. They were not so soft as those of most young men in my position. I had done an amount of harvest work, and thus, with constantly rowing and engaging in other physical exercises, they were almost as hard as an ordinary seaman's.

"What have you been brought up to?" he asked.

"Fishing."

"That's a lie. You are neither a fisherman nor a sailor."

I hung my head.

"Yes, you may hang your head, my lad, for you are not what you seem."

Again in a clumsy way I repeated the duties of both, but the captain would not listen.

"Yes, yes, my young gentleman, you may know about these things as well as I do, but that don't deceive me. You were never brought up to work, you weren't; but you are a strong likely chap for all that."

I tried again to assure him that I could do a sailor's work well.

"Now, look here, young man," he said, "I'm an oldish chap, and have seen a bit of the world, and have learnt to read a little of men and things, and although you are not what you want to pass off to be I like your looks. What you mean by being here I don't know; but that's not my business, and I do want a likely young fellow like you. Answer me square and fair. Are you seeking to get on this vessel because you've done anything wrong, are you in fear of anybody or anything, and is anybody after you now?"

I liked his plain question, and I answered plainly.

"I have done nothing wrong, sir," I said; "I am not afraid of anything or anybody, and no one is after me now."

He looked at me straight in the eyes, but I met his gaze fearlessly.

"What's your name, my lad?"

"Richard Tretheway."

"That is not your real name?"

"No."

"You are sure you are doing nothing wrong in concealing your true name? Be perfectly honest."

"I am doing nothing wrong. I am doing what's right."

"I'll take you," he said.

I thanked him.

"Look you," he said, "expect no favours; you must do your work fair and square like the rest. We go from here to Padstow, then on to Falmouth, from there to Plymouth, then to London. From there, if you behave well, I'll take you to France and down the Mediterranean. Do what you have to do here quickly. It's high tide at six this evening, and then we shall sail."

"Thank you," I said; "I have nothing to do, but I'll go and get some dinner and then come straight back."

As I said this I turned to go; but the captain laughed and called me back.

"Look you, Tretheway," he said, "if I hadn't known you were a greenhorn to this kind of thing before I should know it now. You haven't said anything about wages."

"I'll leave that to you," I said confusedly, and then went back to the town.

I shall not dwell on my experience that evening, nor, indeed, shall I speak of many of my adventures, as I want to relate only those facts of my history which are vitally concerned with the name I bear, with its associations and legends.

The next afternoon we sailed past my old home. Long before we drew near it, I saw the grey tower on the great weather-beaten cliff, and with beating heart I stood on the deck and watched while we drew nearer and nearer. I strained my eyes to catch sight of any of my family, but no one could be seen. Closer and closer we came, the great prongs of the "Devil's Tooth" standing out more clearly as we swept on.

Did anyone there think of me? I wondered. Yes, they would naturally do that. My mother would think of me, and be glad I was gone, for her favourite boy would be master. Wilfred would think of me, and wonder if I should come back, and, perhaps, dread the thought of such a thing happening. My sisters would think of me lovingly, and wonder what had become of Roger. And Ruth—I dared not think of her.

Who had seen my letter? I wondered. My mother was the most likely one to do so, or Wilfred, and they would treasure up the words I had written, they would weigh well their purport. But would it be shown to Ruth or to my sisters?

My dear, dear old home, how I loved it! It was there I was born, it was there my father had died. So near was I to it, and yet so far. Besides, it was mine no longer. I had given it up to make the woman I loved happy, and to keep it from being hell to me.

My thoughts were rudely checked. Two persons stood together on the headland, the headland on which my home stood, and they were evidently looking at the ship in which I was sailing. Who were they? I strained my eyes to see. They looked like Wilfred and—— I dared not think of it, the thought was maddening. I would not believe that Ruth was out walking with Wilfred so soon after my departure, and on the very day when she was reported to be leaving for her home.

Yet why not? By this time they had, perhaps, publicly announced themselves as lovers; and yet they dare not. My departure could not yet be regarded as a settled thing, and my mother had told me that Ruth would be true to her father's wish. As yet I must be regarded among them as Trewinion's heir, and thus she would look upon me as her future husband. How, then, could she be encouraging the man she loved, when she would regard it as a sin to do so?

But was it she, was it Wilfred?

The captain's glass was near me, and I seized it. I brought it to the right focus. I saw them plainly, Ruth and Wilfred standing side by side, with her hand resting on his arm. There could be no mistake.

Yes, she would know all by this time; she would know that I had given up everything for her happiness, and she had accepted it without a pang. She had come out alone with the man who had stepped into my place.

It was base ingratitude. She was not worthy the sacrifice. I would leave the vessel at Falmouth, go home, and destroy their plans; I would claim my own again. As for Wilfred, I would whip him like a dog, and drive him from the place.

I know my thoughts were confused, and unreasonable, but I think I was mad, for I stamped my foot in my rage.

I heard a noise behind me and turned round. The captain stood coolly watching me. Instantly, my position burst upon me, and I was confused.

"Well, Richard Tretheway," he said, "and what have you been using my glass for?"

"It is a fine old headland, sir, and I wanted to see it."

"Ay, and it's a fine old house on the cliff, eh. Whom does it belong to?"

I was silent.

"Ah, well, lad, I will not pry into your secrets; sometime, perhaps, you may want to tell me," and he walked away.

Still I watched, while the couple on the cliff became more and more indistinct, and the old grey tower seemed to melt away in the steely sky, and as it did so my feelings softened, for I felt I was bidding good-bye to it for ever. My love for Ruth began to exert its power, and although I felt bitter, the thought of going back to wreck her happiness was repugnant.

On, on we swept, until Ruth and Wilfred could no longer be seen, and the old house was hidden by the prongs of the "Devil's Tooth." Then I broke down and sobbed like a child. Now, indeed, I was alone and without a friend. There was no brightness in my sky, no hope for the future. Truly I was sad at heart. With that the words of old Deborah Teague came back to me.

"Mind, mind Trewinion's curse, tes comin', tes comin'. I see Maaster Roger homeless, friendless, despised, disgraced. Mind, Maaster Roger, mind."



CHAPTER XIV

"A HOME ON THE ROLLING DEEP"

I found Luke Miller, the captain of the boat, to be kind and friendly. Not that he took any notice of me for several days. He did not. But when we arrived at Plymouth, and were away from the crew, he began to talk kindly to me.

"Tretheway," he said, "I don't know anything about you, and it may be that in talking freely to you I am in one sense taking a liberty. May be you have been brought up well; fact, I'm sure you have. But all that's no business of mine. What I want to say is this, I like you. I daren't show it at sea, as there'd be jealousy. At the same time, if ever I can show my real friendship to you, or if ever you want a friend, you know where to come."

I thanked him warmly.

"There's just another thing to say, lad. You've had a quiet time on board yet, for the men ain't known what to make of you, but they begin to feel their way. They fancies you are a swell and a sneak, so keep your weather eye open. The best men of the crew are leaving here, too, and I am afraid I shall have to pick up a rough lot, so, as I say, keep a sharp look out."

I found this advice very much to the point a day or two after. Not that I minded much. I was too terribly bitter towards almost everything to care what happened to me. Still, when we were fairly out at sea from Plymouth, and the men began to play practical jokes upon me, I remembered the captain's words and remained cool.

There were one or two discontented men on board who took it into their heads that I had a doubtful past, and, moreover, that I had a secret in my life of the discovery of which I was in constant fear.

It was afternoon, and the men having nothing special to do were standing lazily around. I was making my way to the bowsprit, and was walking rather rapidly, when the biggest bully on the boat put out his foot and threw me head foremost. This was received with a loud guffaw of derisive laughter, and the man who had done it was highly complimented on his achievement. I took no notice, however, doing that which I had set out to do. This, instead of lessening their dislike for me, increased it, and for days after I was subjected to many petty annoyances. A few weeks before, I should not have stood it. I was wild and passionate then, full of life and strength, now I was so bitter that I scarcely felt any interest in anything. Besides that, the men were so low and brutal that I disliked encountering them.

At last I went to them and asked what I had done to make them constantly wish to annoy me.

"Because tha'art a coward and a snaik," said one.

"A spy and a tell-tale," said another.

"Cause you think yourself too good to mix with we, who are a mighty sight better than you," said another.

"Or else you're afraid we'll find out something of your dirty ways," said two or three together.

I felt sick and sad at heart. To mix with these men was bad enough, to come into such relationship with them as would lead to a brawl was worse.

"I'm not a coward, a spy, a sneak or a tell-tale," I said quietly. "I don't think myself too good to mix with any honest man, and I'm not afraid of your finding out anything about me."

With that the bully placed himself before me and spat in my face. In a moment my calmness and self-control were gone, and in a minute more we were engaged in a hand-to-hand fight. The devil that my hatred for my brother had aroused now showed itself, and I fought with all the fury of a demon. My opponent was as big as I, and as strong, or would have been had he not abused his strength by evil habits; and in addition to this, he knew many tricks of fighting unknown to me. Minute after minute we fought, he more for the love of fighting than for hatred for me, I with a mad heart, and with every evil passion aroused. If at that moment I could in no other way have beaten him save by selling my soul to the devil, I am sure I should not have hesitated to make the bargain. I had allowed an evil passion to enter my heart, and it had poisoned my whole being. Thus it was that I determined to die rather than be conquered.

A determined man can do almost anything. A mad man is supernaturally strong. I was both. Thus, at length, by a trick of wrestling, and a blow that would have felled an ox, I laid him bruised, bleeding and senseless on the deck. This did not satisfy me. I turned to another who had been prominent in seeking to quarrel and laid him beside the first. Then like a mad bull I rushed upon the rest.

I don't know what happened after that, save that there was a terrible scuffle, and I found myself struggling in the grasp of brawny arms, after which I felt a heavy stunning blow which rendered me oblivious to all my surroundings.

When I awoke to consciousness I was in chains, and the captain by my side.

"Well, Tretheway," said he, "and this is the way you carry on?"

I was silent.

"I took you for a decent lad, perhaps my better in many things, and yet, here I find you fightin' like th' old Nick himself."

"What have I done?" I said sulkily.

"Done! Why disabled two men, unfitted them for work for a week at least, knocked two more into a cocked hat, and would have killed 'em if the whole crew hadn't seized you and took you below here and put you in irons!"

"Somebody has struck me," I said. "I've a wound on my head."

"A chap said he were obliged to do that or you'd a bin the death of him."

"Captain," I said, "you know the truth about this, and that I sought no quarrel; but now, now—if one of them dares to trifle with me I'll——"

"You won't have the chance, Tretheway, my boy. Every man jack of 'em declares they will not sail with you. They've all given warnin' unless you are dropped at the first port."

"Why?"

"Because they say you are not a man but a devil. They say yer eyes were red, and they see a flame a comin' from yer mouth as you fought, and although they're a bad lot I hain't got time to get a fresh crew to suit you, so you must either be left in irons until we get to London, or be dropped at Dover."

"I'll go to London," I said; "I may stand a better chance there."

The captain left me, and I was again alone. I did not feel at all excited, but a kind of despair possessed me. I was not at all surprised or annoyed at the men. I felt that they were right. I should have done harm to them had I remained at liberty. I was not fit to have my irons knocked off. The spirit of hatred possessed me, hatred that was dark and murderous, and hatred is the devil.

I spoke to no one during the time I remained on the vessel. I spoke not when the irons were knocked off my feet and hands by the captain. I climbed to the deck, and saw the men huddled together as if in fear, and I stood and watched them; then I looked and saw we were anchored in a great tidal river, and that London, great London, was on either side of me. Once it would have aroused all the enthusiasm and excitement of my nature. Now I was unmoved. I was about to leave the boat, when a thought struck me and I turned to the captain.

"Captain Luke Miller," I said, "you know the whole meaning and history of this matter, and that I picked no quarrel. I don't grumble; but I want you to stretch a point for me. Can you give me a certificate as an able-bodied seaman?"

He did not speak, but put a piece of paper in my hand, and pointed to the board by which I was to leave the boat. I gave him a look of thankfulness and left.

I tramped through the crowded London streets unheedingly. I did not realise the seething surging, masses of people; I forgot that I was in the greatest city of the world, the centre of thought, and power, and learning.

At length I came to London Bridge. I did not know it at the time, but I have since learned that such was the fact. I stood for a little while wondering at the great crowds of busy people, and then I looked at the broad, dirty river. A large vessel was being unloaded of her cargo, and I went straight to the captain.

I asked him for a place among the crew. He looked at me suspiciously and then said, "Who was your last captain?"

I told him.

"Let's have a look at your papers," he said.

Although I had not looked at what Captain Luke Miller had given me, I handed the certificate to this skipper, who read it carefully.

"I'll engage you," he said, giving me back my certificate.

I looked at it afterwards and found the reason of my ready acceptance. Luke Miller had proved a friend indeed, and had spoken very highly of me.

In a few days we set sail, during which time I remained on board. I had no desire to see London; I wished to be away on the broad, deep sea.

I found that we were bound for a long voyage, and that the captain had got together a very motley crew. This did not trouble me; in fact, I was glad on both scores. The journey would take me away—I cared not where, the savagery of the crew accorded with my own wild feelings. They were a poor, degraded set, weak physically, and with the stamp of villainy upon them. Their conversation was degrading, their every thought was steeped with filth. I soon made myself a sort of unofficial captain among them, and by a strong will held them in subjection.

I dropped my pen at the last word, for I found myself beginning to describe in detail my seafaring experience, and I must not do that. It is not necessary, nor will it be interesting. One or two prominent facts I shall relate, the rest must be imagined.

I sailed with this captain and this crew nearly twelve months, then I left them, and for the next seven years I went from ship to ship and from crew to crew.

I need not have done so, but I determined not to set my foot on English ground. I wished to keep away from every association and thought of my past life. There is not much that I need describe. I had the usual experience of seafaring men. I experienced cold, hunger, and storm; but was indifferent to them. I do not think I had any interest in life. Often death stared me in the face, and I did not flinch. I should not have minded had the hand of death struck me down. Indeed, if I ever wished for anything it was that I should die, and still I remained strong, and hearty, and well.

But my love for Ruth died not, my hatred for Wilfred was as strong as it was when I had seen him with Ruth on the great headland watching the ship in which I sailed. Every fact of my early life, and of my relations with Ruth, was as real and vivid as when I had lived at home. The eight years I had been away had destroyed neither my memory, nor my feelings.

It was a wild life I lived. I had no friends, no ties, nothing, in fact, to refine or purify. The hatred in my heart kept me from being loved by my associates, and nothing kept me from sinking to the lowest depths of degradation but my love for Ruth. Often, when I was on the point of yielding to the low and the depraved, my love for her saved me. That was a pure force in my life, and it was my salvation.

Often did I think of the old home life. Often did I imagine what my mother and the rest would be doing. Sometimes I asked myself if ever they thought of me, or if they had any idea as to what had become of me. I tried to comfort myself by believing that they thought about me, or that they mourned me as dead. Then I hoped that they wished me alive and waited for my home-coming; but that hope was speedily dispelled by the remembrance of my last interview with Ruth and my mother.

Strange to say, I never once longed to return home; never once desired that my feet should stand on the spongy turf on the great headland; never wanted to speak to any one of the family. I felt that I was a banished man, homeless and friendless.

It may be that some will say the "Trewinion's curse" is merely an idle tale. I know not; this I know: that ever since I realised my hatred for Wilfred, on the morning of my departure, I lived a new life, a life that was all dark. The skies were black, the earth was black, and, worst of all, my heart was black. Never since then had I known real joy or gladness. A terrible despair gnawed at my heart, and this I carried everywhere. I had thought that by going away from the scenes of my childhood I should escape my sorrow. I was foolish to think so. I discovered that sorrow comes not so much from the outward; it comes from the heart, from the man himself. Wherever I went I could not shake off the shadow of self, and thus I was never free from sorrow and pain.

At the end of eight years there was a change in my life. I was now more than thirty. My softer feelings, all but one, had gone. I was as hard and callous as the cliffs which surround the Cornish coast. At this time we were sailing the Indian seas, and our vessel was laden with a valuable cargo. The men were lazily standing around on the deck, while the captain stood with his glass to his eye eagerly scanning a distant object.

We took no notice for a while, then it was whispered along the deck that the captain had seen a curious, suspicious-looking craft that was evidently bearing down upon us. This whisper was soon confirmed by the fact that our vessel's course was altered, and every stitch of canvas that she could carry was hoisted. In spite of this, however, we saw that the other boat was gaining rapidly upon us, and must in a very few hours overtake us.

I saw that a great fear had seized the crew, for there was but little doubt that our pursuer was a pirate. For myself I did not care. I was indifferent to life, and it mattered not what became of me. It was, however, in my nature to fight for the side on which I found myself, so like the rest I prepared for the struggle. When the two vessels were near each other our pursuer hoisted a black flag, then we were sure of what would follow.

Never was a crew braver than ours; every man fought for dear life, but we were no match for the assailants. They were double our number and armed to the teeth. At length we were overpowered and bound. The vessel was no longer in our possession, and the company to which she belonged would have to suffer a great loss. It was not that of which we were thinking, however. Every man was in terrible dread as to what his own future would be.

The captain of the pirate ship was one of the most striking men I ever saw. He was, perhaps, forty years of age, and was of Spanish extraction. His eyes and hair were as black as the raven's wing, and his skin was of a dark, olive colour. His crew were likewise Spaniards, plainly outlaws of the worst character. But I noticed that they all loved and obeyed their chief. I did not wonder at their obeying him, his personality was so strong, but I did wonder at their loving him. He seemed stern, harsh, and violent.

After we had all been bound, I saw the captain of the pirate ship consulting with his men; evidently they were deciding what to do with us, and there seemed some difference of opinion. Presently the captain inspected us one by one. We were by no means as fine a crew as our conquerors, not simply in numbers, but in kind. We were made up of different nationalities, and I was the only Englishman among the whole number. There were Greeks, Arabs, Turks, and one or two Austrians among us. The captain and the mates were all Greeks, and the ship belonged to a Greek company. Most of the men were small in bone, and while strong and wiry, were by no means striking in appearance.

After he had looked at us some time, there was another consultation, and at length they decided what to do, and we saw that preparations were being made. Eagerly I scanned the sea, but not a sail was in sight, no help was near, and careless as I had been about danger my heart felt heavy.

With blanched faces our men saw a plank which reached a few yards into the sea, placed on the vessel's deck, and with beating hearts we saw the officers of our ship bound.

I will not try and describe the scene. Hard and rough as I was, it was terrible to see men killed in cold blood. In vain the captain pleaded that he had a wife and little ones. No mercy was shown, and, although we dreaded the sight, our eyes were drawn, as if by a magnet, to see the men who had commanded us walking to their death. Even now their awful shrieks as they fell into the sea ring in my ears. And we were all bound, unable to help them, and waiting for a similar doom.

Then we saw what caused us common sailors hope. A good-sized boat was lowered, and provisions were placed in it; and one by one, the men were told to board it, This they gladly did, until I was left alone. I was preparing to follow, when the captain came up to me. He took a long look at me and then spoke to his men. I had picked up enough of Spanish during the years I had been away to understand an ordinary conversation, so I followed every word he said. His opinion was that I should make a splendid addition to their crew, and that it was a pity I should be lost to them.

"Your name?" he said to me abruptly.

"Richard Tretheway!"

"Ah, you are English?"

"Yes."

"How long since you were there?"

"Eight years."

"Why have you kept away from your home so long?"

"For private reasons."

"Ah!" he said eagerly, and he looked at me keenly. "One of us, eh? Stand up, Richard Tretheway."

I stood up. Tall as he was, I was taller, and broader too, for that part. The Trewinions have ever been a race of giants.

"What do you wish us to do with you?" he said at length.

"I'm not anxious."

"Then you don't mind walking the plank?"

"It won't matter much. I must die some time, and I've not much to live for."

The captain's eyes sparkled.

"What do you think of us?" he said at length.

I looked at our crew, who were evidently to be sent away to die. I thought of our officers who had only a few minutes before been condemned to death, and I said savagely:

"I think you are bloodthirsty villains—demons out of hell."

He laughed a mirthless, cruel laugh, while the crew demanded my death.

"What would you do if you had us in your power?"

"Hang you."

"Why?"

"To rid the earth of such a crew."

"Let him walk the plank," cried the men.

But the captain was more forbearing.

"Why, look you," he said, "you are just as bad as we. We sent your officers to Heaven or to the other place for our safety, while you would send us there for the safety of the world. Who has the most reason on his side?"

I was silent at this, and the captain went on: "You fought like a mad bull when we were boarding you. There are three men down under lying half dead because of you."

"Serve them right," I said, "I was defending the party attacked, and, while I don't care a fig for my own life, I would fight to defend those who do."

"Would you like to be one of us?" said the captain.

"What would you have me do?"

"Be a king on the high seas."

In spite of everything I felt a liking for the captain. There was a fascinating power about him, and I wanted to know about him. My eight years on the wave had hardened me, and my hatred had dulled my higher feelings.

"Look you," he went on, "we are not wholly bad. We have freed hundreds of slaves, and while we live by plunder we only take from the strong and the rich. Only last week we set at liberty two hundred slaves who would have been sold to a living death."

He went on speaking in this strain until I was less bitter towards him, but I said:

"All this does not prove that you are not cold-blooded villains. The officers of my ship are now dead through you. Your robbery is bad. Your murder is worse."

Again the men clamoured; but again the captain went on:

"What, are we worse than your English man-of-war vessels? You go to war with a country, you take her vessels, you kill her men, and your crews divide the booty. What, are we worse? Nay, we are better!"

I did not attempt to argue further with him, being maddened at the thought of my captain being killed, and of the wife and children who would have to bewail his loss. So instead of answering him I burst into a torrent of abuse.

"Tie his hands and blindfold him," cried the captain savagely.

In a few seconds this was done!

They placed me on the plank.

"Walk!" cried the captain.

In a second a vision of my old home flashed before me, but I walked straight on. I felt the warp of the plank, and knew I was nearing the end!

Step by step I walked, then my foot went into space, and in a minute more I fell bound into the deep sea, hearing the savage yell of the pirate crew as I did so!



CHAPTER XV

THE VOICE OF THE SOUL

I had scarcely fallen into the water when I felt myself drawn up again. Unknown to me a rope had been fastened around me, and in another minute I stood upon the deck.

"Good!" cried the captain. "You stood the test well, and are just the sort of fellow we want." I looked at him in astonishment.

"Yes, you may look," he said, "but at heart you are one of us. I can see both discontent and defiance in your eyes, your face. You are out of love with the world, and when you know my history you'll sympathise with me, and won't take much persuading to become one of our crew."

I was thereupon taken to a cabin, where I was supplied with dry clothes, after which the captain came and spoke to me. Evidently, he was desirous of my becoming one of his allies, for without hesitation he told me the history of his life and his reasons for leading such a life.

I will not repeat his story at length. I do not wish to recall in detail the terrible things he related. True to his Spanish nature, he hated intensely and loved intensely. When quite a boy he had loved, and his love had been returned. There were months of happiness, then a rich nobleman appeared, and, fascinated by the beauty of his betrothed sought to win her from him. Defeated in this, he used force. Then followed a succession of plots and cunning intrigue, and, finally, through the avarice and greed of his love's father, through social influence, and through devilry of the worst kind, he, the pirate captain, was robbed of the one for whom he would have died, while she became disgraced and ruined. Then his passion burned to white heat, and revenge was his one object. He did not rest until he had killed his rival, after which he was obliged to fly. Others who had been engaged with him in the fray left with him, and formed themselves into a band, which gradually grew until they became what they were.

I shall never forget the terrible intensity with which he told his story; how at one time his eyeballs were red as fire, and at another his hands trembled with passion; and again, when he told of the beauty of his betrothed, how his voice became gentle, and his eye became moist. In spite of everything I could not help sympathising with him, and, afterwards, when he spoke of his buccaneering career and remembered what led him to it I did not wonder.

Need I tell how, little by little, I fell in with the captain's proposals and vowed allegiance to him? I can scarcely realise what happened now; it seems but as a half-forgotten dream; though real enough then. In those days my better nature was dead, or nearly so. I had allowed one passion to conquer me, and it had poisoned my whole being. I had learnt the meaning of the words of Scripture: "For whosoever shall keep the whole law and yet offend in one point, he is guilty of all." This is more than mere words; it is a principle of life. One passion corrupts the whole being, degrades the whole man, and thus I, because I entertained hate for my brother, lost my finer nature and joined a crew of pirates.

I will not portray the life we led; how by sheer brute force and will power I fought my way up until I was next in power to the captain himself. I could fill a volume in narrating the battles we fought and the hair-breadth escapes we had, but whoever reads these lines must imagine for themselves how we dreaded being taken, and how we vowed a terrible vow to die the most awful death rather than be conquered by any vessel, of whatever nationality. Truly it was a wild life, full of danger and peril; and yet I was happier in it than I had been for years. There was freedom on the wide seas, there were interest and excitement in our constant frays. The life suited my uncouth, rugged nature, and thus for two years I almost forgot my past and lived only in the excitement of the present.

I had been ten years away from home, ten years without ever catching sight of the British shores. Eight years I had served on trading vessels of various nationalities, and two years I had been a pirate, when another change came.

I was sitting one evening alone, watching the setting sun, when I began to think of my old life. I remembered all the legends of our house and name as vividly as if I had been hearing them during the last ten years. I thought of my father's warning that I should never leave the Trewinion estate for six months at a time; if I did the race for three generations would be cursed, while I should be haunted by dark spirits on my deathbed. I remembered how he told me that if a Trewinion did what was unlawful he brought down the vengeance of Heaven. And I had been away ten years; I had become a pirate and was ever under a sentence of death. I thought again of old Deborah Teague's warning, of the cave full of evil women, and wondered. Then memories of Ruth came back to me, and I saw her at Trewinion Manor as Wilfred's wife. I wondered if I should ever see them all again—wondered, and then tried to forget. I became oblivious of the beauty of the setting sun and of my surroundings. The ship on which I sailed might be a ship of the fancy for all I knew, for all I knew the crew might be spirits or men. I was back again in my old home, and when at length I was aroused from my reverie I could not get rid of the impression that I was wanted, needed amongst the scenes of my childhood.

Presently the captain came near and laid his hand on my shoulder.

"Tretheway, I am getting tired of this roving life," he said.

"So am I," was my reply.

"I have been thinking," he went on, "if there may not be happiness and peace for me even yet. I have been wondering if I may not return to the land of my birth, and maybe find someone whom I can love and who can love me."

I looked up into his face. There was a soft expression in his eyes, and his lip was tremulous.

"Perhaps the way may open up soon," I said.

"It shall," he replied, sternly, and walked away.

Soon after this I turned in. I did not expect to sleep, but no sooner had my head been placed on the pillow than I fell asleep and dreamed.

I saw the old home again as plainly as if I were there, and recognised several of the servants. Katherine and Elizabeth I could not see, but my mother was there, and Wilfred. In my dream I wandered from room to room. I felt sure that Ruth was in the house, but I could not find her. At length I entered the library. I thought I could see everything, and yet I was unseen. It appeared to me that while my spirit was there my body was elsewhere. All my thinking powers were supernaturally awake, but my body was asleep.

The room was in darkness, or nearly so, and I thought no one was there until I heard a sigh, and then I saw Ruth. She moved in her chair as if weary. A servant entered bearing a light, and then I saw her face. It was wonderfully changed. It was not that she looked older, but that she was so weary and wan. The old joyous light was gone from her eyes, and she was very thin and fragile.

"Ah!" I thought, "the marriage has not been happy. Perhaps Wilfred has not been kind to her; perhaps she has children, and they are sickly."

I looked at her hand, but could see no wedding ring. Then I heard a noise outside and a whispering, and I saw that her face had a look of terror upon it, as though she dreaded some great calamity.

The door opened, and in walked my mother and Wilfred.

I looked at both their faces and watched their expression. Hers looked somewhat haggard and hard; while his was cunning and yet fascinating.

They sat down beside her, and mother asked her why she looked so troubled and wan; but she was silent. Then Wilfred spoke to her.

"Ruth," he said, "the ten long years have come to an end. You know your promise. Think how patiently I have waited, and how I must have loved you to wait so long. Now, Ruth, let us wed at once, so that we may fulfil our fathers' wishes."

Then I looked at her again, and from her eyes tears fell, and on her face was such a look of misery that her enemy, had she one, could not help pitying her.

"You are not Trewinion's heir," she murmured.

"How can you say that?" he replied. "Roger is dead, of that we are sure. You know that his body was found a few days after his departure, bruised and battered, 'tis true, but still my mother recognised him, and so did Mr. Inch, and Mr. Polperrow. All believed it was Roger but you, and so when I asked you to fulfil our fathers' wishes you would not. Then the months and years passed on, and Roger came not; so I pleaded with you again, and you said if Roger came not within ten years of his departure you would believe him dead and wed me. Those ten years are complete this very night, and I am come again to claim my promise."

Then I saw Ruth bury her face in her hands and sob bitterly.

Again the door opened, and I saw Mr. Inch enter with a roll of papers in his hand.

"Mr. Inch," cried Ruth, "will you not be my friend, will you not tell me that this need not be?"

Then I saw Mr. Inch and Wilfred change glances, and the former open his roll of papers.

"I am your friend," he said; "and I am also your father's old servant, and I would see his wishes carried out."

Then he began to read:—"'I desire my daughter Ruth to dwell in the house of my friend, Roger Trewinion, and that she shall be wedded to his heir, so that the two estates shall be united. And it is my will that she shall be wedded to him as soon as possible after she comes of age, and to remain at Trewinion Manor until within a month of the wedding day. Then she shall return to Morton Hall to prepare for the marriage ceremony.' This is an extract from the will," he went on, "and I should not be a friend to Miss Ruth if I failed to see this carried out. We have waited now many years beyond the time, and if this be not done soon the bodies of the dead fathers will rise from their graves to know why their wishes have not been fulfilled."

Then I heard Ruth speak again.

"Oh, Roger, Roger," she said, "why did you go away?"

"Why?" said my mother, "because you drove him. He was mad with love for you, and because you scorned him he ended his days. Be careful, or, perchance, you will drive my other son to his death as well."

At this she looked up to the faces of those in the room with an expression of dull despair.

"I will obey my father's will," she said huskily, "make what arrangements you choose."

Then I saw Wilfred move towards her, as if to embrace her; and I thought I went forward too, as if to hinder him, but Ruth looked up and gave a scream, half of joy, half of fear.

"Roger is here!" she cried.

I thought I saw consternation on every face, then all melted away, and I awoke.

I was lying in my cabin in a pirate vessel, was not at home at all; what I had seen was a mocking dream. And yet all was real. I could not believe that I had not been at home, though I knew it could not be. I was away on the broad seas, hundreds of miles from land. My imagination had been excited, and I had dreamed—that was all. I tried to sleep again, but could not, I was constantly thinking of what I had seen in my vision. Then I remembered the day of the month and the year. Yes, ten years ago that very night I had left home. I had not been thinking of that, but in spite of everything it had been revealed to me in my dream. Was it a dream, or was it real? Had my spirit travelled home, the spirit that knows no boundary or limits, had I seen a vision of what really existed?

Such a thing was without precedent in my experience, and yet why should it not be? Our bodies are not ourselves. We are distinct from the flesh, the bone, the sinew, why then might not the spirit have liberty to go home to its early associations?

I could remain in my cabin no longer. I rushed up to the deck, saw two sailors standing at the post of duty. I spoke a word to them, and then went towards the forecastle alone.

The night was as still as death, not a ripple could I see on the waters. I looked around me, and all was smooth, placid sea. I looked upwards and saw a cloudless sky, the full moon was almost as bright as the sun itself, so much so that the stars barely showed themselves. Now and then I could hear the gentle lapping of the water against the vessel's side, but beyond that—nothing.

I stood alone, minute after minute, thinking. I could not forget my dream, for such I had forced myself to believe it was, when——

What was it I heard?

The cry of a woman! A wail of distress!

My heart seemed ready to burst; but I listened.

Then I heard words. I heard my own name uttered by a woman' voice!

And I was alone on a vessel, with nothing but men on board, hundreds of miles from land, and no other vessel near.

"Roger! Roger! where are you?" said the voice.

I answered not, I could not, for my tongue clave to the roof of my mouth, but eagerly I listened.

"Come to me, Roger! Come to me, or they will kill me!"

It was Ruth's voice, carried by the power of God to me. I was wanted home. I was sure of it, yet I could make no answer to what I had heard. For years I had forgotten God, but He had not forgotten me. He had revealed Himself in the voice I had heard. He had carried the message of Ruth's heart to me. I was sure now that there was a God in Heaven, and that He was telling me to frustrate evil.

Then something told me that all this was fancy, the result of an excited brain. I had been dreaming, and now I fancied I had heard what only existed in a mind half mad. I rushed to one of the sailors.

"Did you hear a woman's voice, just now?" I said.

"Woman's voice?" said the man, evidently surprised, "why no, sir!"

Had I been mistaken? Was it all delirium?

Again I strained my ears, and again I heard the voice.

"Come, Roger, I am all alone. Oh come to me!"

I answered, but whether articulately or no I cannot say; the words I said in my heart were,

"I am coming, Ruth, I am coming."

Then it seemed to me that the broad waste of waters reiterated my words, until away in the far distance, where the sea lost itself in the sky, I could hear them repeated "I am coming, Ruth, I am coming."

I know that this will seem strange to whoever may read it, but I only speak the truth. Perhaps my sons and my sons' sons may say it was simply the result of an overwrought mind; but I believe otherwise.

For hours I walked the deck, but I heard nothing more. I expected nothing. I weighed what I had seen in my dreams, and connected it with what I had heard in my waking moments. What did it mean? First my fears said it was but the deceitful words of the devil, who would drag me deeper into sin. But my heart cast that off. I felt that there was no evil agency at work. Then I thought it was only a dream; but how could that be? Why should it come that night, exactly ten years from the time I had left home, and why should I hear the voice afterwards? And so I came to the conclusion that I had been allowed by God to know that I was needed at home.

The thought gave me new life, new energy. The passion of my hatred was stunned by some greater passion. If my dream were indeed true, if the voice were not a mockery, Ruth was not yet married, and she loved me. For hours I lived in blissful ecstasy, the smooth waters were written all over with messages of joy, the sky seemed full of the angels of God.

Then I became possessed of a feverish anxiety to return home. I must not lose a minute, but great difficulties lay in the way. I was thousands of miles from England, and there were no civilised ports we dared enter. Piracy on the high seas is a crime, and so there would be great difficulty in landing at any port from which I could sail for home. But the difficulty must be managed somehow. Ruth wanted me, and I would go home.

I must speak to the captain at once, he could sympathise with me; he would help me.

Then I saw a streak of gold shoot across the waters, and soon the sea was flooded with glory. The king of day rose, triumphant, grand. The night was over, and I felt the light of day in my heart.

I turned to the gangway and saw the captain wistfully watching the glowing sea.

Without hesitation I went to him, and began my story.



CHAPTER XVI

AFTER LONG YEARS

"I wish to say a few words to you, captain."

"Say on, Tretheway."

"I have never told you the history of my life, now I wish to do so."

He nodded his head as if ready to listen. Accordingly I began, and related in some detail the story of my life. He listened attentively; evidently, he was interested. Step by step he followed my narrative, until I came to the previous evening. Then as I told him of the dream and the call I had heard, his face became pale as death, and he clenched his hand nervously.

"It is the voice of God, or of the mother of God. You must go, Tretheway," he said.

"Yes, I feel I must, and that soon," I replied. "But how?"

"Last night I told you that I was tired of this life," he said. "This morning I feel I must leave it. I have been a wild, lawless fellow, Tretheway; but I have been more sinned against than sinning, and I want to go home, where, by gifts to the Church, prayers, and penances I shall surely receive forgiveness."

For an hour we talked together.

It was all settled at length. The vessel should sail under his direction with all speed to the coast of France, where we were to make over the whole cargo and ship to the crew, and then leave it for ever. Accordingly we altered the course of the vessel, and after a few days' fast sailing reached the desired position. Then the captain called the crew together and appointed officers to command, ordered a boat and provisions to be lowered, and told them he meant to leave them for ever.

At first the men demurred, they could never agree under another captain they declared, but when Salambo (the captain) told them that the vessel and all its belongings were theirs, and that he should make no claim upon it, they became pacified.

We were now a few miles from land, at the nearest point between France and Spain, and we could see the lights of St. Sebastian in the distance. It wanted but an hour to daybreak, and we wished, if possible, to land without attracting any attention. To me this seemed almost impossible; but the captain was confident, so I trusted him.

We left the pirate vessel at length, I feeling a great load lifted off my mind. All the time I had been with the crew I had seemed to breathe foul atmosphere, and when I was once rid of them a new life opened before me. We had drifted, perhaps, a mile from the vessel when Salambo hoisted a small sail, and the wind being favourable we were wafted quickly towards land. This being done, he opened a box, which he had taken care should be lowered into the boat, and took from it two complete suits of gentlemen's attire.

"I always like to be ready for emergencies," he said, coolly. "If we go on shore dressed as we are we shall be objects of suspicion immediately."

He changed his clothes, which completely altered his appearance, after which he bade me follow his example.

"Now," he said, when I had finished, "you look more like a civilized man; but there is a pirate's fire in your eye even yet. I don't know that I should like having you for an enemy, for I think you would still make short work of the man you disliked."

Involuntarily, I thought of my brother Wilfred, and clenched my hands nervously. Salambo watched me with a curious look on his face, and then continued:

"But we must get rid of these things, or they will not fit in with my story when we land."

"Why, what are you going to say?"

"Say! Why, that I am a Spanish gentleman from Santiago, that you are an English friend of mine, and that we have for a freak come over here. I speak the Spanish language perfectly, of course, while you speak it with an English accent. Leave all to me. I'll manage it."

We landed at St. Sebastian in the early moming without difficulty. The change in Salambo's clothes had not only altered his appearance, but it had apparently made a different man of him. He was no longer the wild sea robber, but a refined, courteous gentleman. Instinctively the peasantry saluted him with respect, and we were soon installed in the best place of accommodation in the town.

I was anxious to get away, and feverishly asked him as to my best means of getting to England.

"I have been thinking whether we shall ever meet again," he said, without answering my question. "We have been together nearly two years, and we have come to regard each other as friends. Should we ever settle down, which I doubt in spite of our desires, I hope we shall be able to meet—meet in peace as brothers."

"Why not?" I said, boldly and confidently, "nothing would give me more joy than to welcome you in my old Cornish home."

"Ah, Senor Trewinion," he said, for I had told him my true name, "we have both been away ten years, and when we get to our respective birthplaces we shall find things much changed. And—well, my heart is sad, and I have many doubts."

"I feel that my Ruth is alive," I said, confidently, though my heart sank within me.

"She may be alive, and yet who knows if she loves you? Ah! Senor, do not build your hopes too high. A woman is for ever a woman, a puzzle to themselves, and an unfathomable mystery to men."

"Well, I'm going to see if all is well, anyhow," I said. "What are you going to do?"

"Trewinion, I feel I have acted wrongly," he said. "I came away leaving my Inez unprotected. The man who stole her from me is dead; but what has become of her I know not. Methinks I never loved her well, or I should not have left her because of fear of pursuit. She was guilty of nothing, and she loved me, and I have left her all these long years."

I was silent, for I felt it would be useless to speak.

"But I shall try to find her," he went on, "and—who knows?—it may be that she will forgive me and we shall be happy. I trust so, I pray it may be so."

"And if you do, how shall I know?" I said.

"I have been thinking of this ever since we decided to leave," he replied, "and this is the plan I have marked out. You had better go first to Bordeaux. From there you will be easily able to get a vessel for England. I, on the other hand, shall go across The Pyrenees to my home at Barcelona. If I am alive, this address will find me," and he put a piece of paper in my hand.

"Will you be safe there?" I asked.

"I think so. You know my people are wild and passionate. They easily forgive such sins as mine when they remember my provocation. Indeed, I have known the perpetrators of similar deeds lauded as heroes. My only thought is, if I shall find Inez—if I do not I shall not care to live; but if I do, the past will be forgotten, and I shall be happy."

The tears stood in his eyes as he spoke, and then I realised that all his sinful deeds had not destroyed his heart.

I left that same afternoon for Bordeaux, while Salambo made preparations to go to Barcelona, where he hoped to find his Inez.

In spite of all my eagerness and anxiety it was one month from the night on which I received my summons home to the time I landed at Falmouth. Without waiting an hour I made preparations to hurry on to Trewinion Manor. I shall never forget my feelings when, after ten years of absence, I first saw the Cornish cliffs. At one time it seemed as though the past ten years were only a dream, and that I had never left Cornwall at all, and again I felt as though my life prior to my leaving home was an unreality.

I found a coach at Falmouth that would take me within a few miles of my home, so I quickly took my place, and then fretted and fumed as we slowly rumbled on. It was towards afternoon when the coach arrived at the spot where I could be set down, and there with fast beating heart I watched the retreating conveyance, while I stood not far from my birthplace.

How quiet it was to be sure! There were no houses near, save one little wayside cottage and a small farmhouse among the fields. All the features were as familiar as if I had never left them. Hill and dale alike were known to me, I had roamed over them all long years since. All these rich green meadows were mine. I, who had been an alien and a wanderer on the face of the earth, was the lawful master of all I saw, and yet nothing was mine, for had I not renounced them long years ago, renounced them for the sake of the woman I loved?

I set out for the old homestead and walked rapidly. Eagerly I passed by every landmark which told me I was nearer home, and when at last only one little hillock stood between me and the sight of the place that was ever dear to me I almost lost control over my actions.

Up I rushed, heedless of everything, until nothing hid it from my gaze. I was like the old Israelites who travelled towards Jerusalem, and anxiously waited for the last hill to be reached in order that they might see the place they loved best in the world.

And this was the place I loved best. There it stood, grey, rugged and stern as in the olden days, its sturdy tower still braving the wind and weather. Long I stood and looked at it. My home! The place where my father had taught me to love him, the place where he had died, blessing me! Eagerly I watched for signs of life, but I could seen none; all was silent and lonely. I looked seaward and saw the smooth, glittering waters as they played around the base of the "Devil's Tooth;" I watched the yellow beach, which sloped up towards the witches' cave; I saw the rugged cliffs and the rocks over which I had helped Ruth years before, when Wilfred had left her alone. And, as I stood, memory after memory flashed through my mind, old sayings came back to me, and scenes which I had not thought about for years excited my mind, until my whole being was moved to the very centre, and in spite of all my hardships and buffetings I sobbed like a child.

I was surprised that no signs of life appeared. I looked at the fields and saw not a single soul. I looked at the little cove. A few boats were rocking idly on the waters, but no human being was near. Was the place deserted? Then I began to think. The day of the week was Monday, and it was the third Monday in September. Yes, that was the feast day of Trewinion parish. Yesterday the parish church would be crowded; to-day the parishioners would meet at the Churchtown, where there would be great festivities. It was a general holiday for the whole parish, and the people had congregated on the village green over by the church.

Still, I expected a few servants would be at home, and mother, and, perchance, Wilfred. He would never mix with the rowdy villagers, as he called them, and would probably be in the library following some favourite literary pursuit. What should I do? Go home and proclaim myself as Roger Trewinion, owner and master of everything? No, I did not like to do that—yet I must know how things stood. I must know about everything, where Ruth was, and what position she held!

And still I stood gazing on the old house on the cliff until I saw a man come out and slowly saunter down the drive.

It was Wilfred.

I started to go forward and speak to him, but stopped immediately after. Long years of foreign travel and passing through dangerous scenes had made me careful. I knew not how I should be received, and I must not give Wilfred the whip hand of me. No, I would find out what had happened at home during the intervening years. I would go on to the village green, and there, perchance, I should see those who knew me in the past, and should give them a chance of recognising me.

Passing near the church, however, I could not resist the temptation to enter. To an ordinary sightseer, it would doubtless possess small attraction, but to me who accompanied my father there more than twenty years before, and where I had received what little religious instruction I possessed, it was of more than ordinary interest. Besides, my father was buried beneath the altar steps, and I longed to see the place again. Accordingly I entered the churchyard, and finding the church door open, entered the sacred building. Instinctively I found my way to the eastern end of the church, and there experienced one of the strangest sensations of my life. On the wall just above my father's tomb was a tablet erected to the memory of my father, giving not only the year of his birth, but the manner of his death. But this was not what affected me. I had expected to see some memorial of my father, but what startled me was the sight of another tablet immediately beneath it, on which were written these words:—

SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF

ROGER TREWINION

ELDEST SON OF THE ABOVE

WHO MET HIS DEATH BY DROWNING, AND WHOSE BODY WAS DISCOVERED ON THE SANDS.

"Thy brother shall rise again!"

THIS TABLET WAS ERECTED BY HIS LOVING MOTHER AND BROTHER.

Whether wonder or anger were strongest within me I know not, but both strove mightily. For first of all it is a strange experience for any man to see his own tombstone, and in spite of myself I could not help shivering. But strong as was this feeling, anger well-nigh overcame it. It seemed to me that both my mother and brother were so eager for me to be dead, that they were glad of any excuse for making me appear so, and I determined that I would understand what it all meant.

Accordingly I walked towards the village and soon found myself in the midst of about two hundred people, which was regarded as a great crowd in that neighbourhood. In one corner of the green was a wrestling ring, and in another was a group of young folk dancing to the music of two or three instruments, which had evidently been specially obtained for the occasion. Some very coarse sweetmeats were being sold at the sweet stalls and a general holiday air pervaded the scene. I saw as I came up that I was curiously regarded. My dress was of foreign make, and I was bronzed by years of exposure. My beard, too, was long, and my whole appearance was different from those whom the people would be likely to see. Moreover, it was very seldom a stranger visited that neighbourhood, and thus naturally I was regarded as a sort of curiosity.

I looked from face to face, but could see no one that I knew. During these years middle-aged men seemed to have grown old, and children to have sprung into men and women. I made my way towards the wrestling ring, where two youths struggled with each other, while the people looked at them with open mouths. Here I saw two or three farmers whom I knew, but I did not care to enter into conversation.

It was very strange. I was home, and yet no one knew me. The parish was called by my name, the church was called Trewinion Church, and yet I, Roger, the oldest male member of the house, was a stranger, and looked at curiously by the people. Eleven years before I had been at the feast, and then everyone had paid respect to "Maaster Roger"; but now, the bronzed, bearded, foreign-looking man, was an alien.

At length one of the two men who had been wrestling was thrown, and then I heard a voice which I thought I knew, saying, "That's a feir vall." It was spoken by the man who had been selected as umpire, and when I caught sight of his face I recognised Bill Tregargus, the man who climbed the "Devil's Tooth" on the stormy night when Ruth was rescued. I had always remained friendly with Bill up to the time I left. I determined I would speak to him.

As this was the last "hitch" of the day, the ring was broken up, and I saw Bill going with the rest towards the village alehouse.