E-text prepared by Lionel Sear

DEAD MAN'S ROCK.

A Romance.

by

Arthur Thomas Quiller-Couch (Q).

1887

[This e-text prepared from an edition published in 1894]

To the Memory of My Father I dedicate this book.

CONTENTS.

BOOK I.--THE QUEST OF THE GREAT RUBY.

Chapter.

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

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

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

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

V.       TELLS HOW THE SAILOR GEORGIO RHODOJANI GAVE EVIDENCE AT THE
        "LUGGER INN"

VI.      TELLS HOW A FACE LOOKED IN AT THE WINDOW OF LANTRIG; AND IN
         WHAT MANNER MY FATHER CAME HOME TO US.

VII.     TELLS HOW UNCLE LOVEDAY MADE A DISCOVERY; AND WHAT THE TIN
         BOX CONTAINED.

VIII.    CONTAINS THE FIRST PART OF MY FATHER'S JOURNAL: SETTING FORTH
         HIS MEETING WITH MR. ELIHU SANDERSON, OF BOMBAY; AND MY
         GRANDFATHER'S MANUSCRIPT.

IX.      CONTAINS THE SECOND PART OF MY FATHER'S JOURNAL: SETTING
         FORTH HIS ADVENTURES IN THE ISLAND OF CELON.

X.       CONTAINS THE THIRD AND LAST PART OF MY FATHER'S JOURNAL:
         SETTING FORTH THE MUTINY ON BOARD THE _BELLE FORTUNE_

XI.      TELLS OF THE WRITING UPON THE GOLDEN CLASP; AND HOW I TOOK
         DOWN THE GREAT KEY.

BOOK II--THE FINDING OF THE GREAT RUBY.

Chapter.

I.       TELLS HOW THOMAS LOVEDAY AND I WENT IN SEARCH OF FORTUNE.

II.      TELLS OF THE LUCK OF THE GOLDEN CLASP.

III.     TELLS AN OLD STORY IN A TRADITIONAL MANNER.

IV.      TELLS HOW I SAW THE SHADOW OF THE ROCK; AND HOW I TOLD AND
         HEARD NEWS.

V.       TELLS HOW THE CURTAIN ROSE UPON "FRANCESCA: A TRAGEDY"

VI.      TELLS HOW THE BLACK AND YELLOW FAN SENT A MESSAGE; AND HOW I
         SAW A FACE IN THE FOG.

VII.     TELLS HOW CLAIRE WENT TO THE PLAY; AND HOW SHE SAW THE
         GOLDEN CLASP.

VIII.    TELLS HOW THE CURTAIN FELL UPON "FRANCESCA: A TRAGEDY"

IX.      TELLS HOW TWO VOICES LED ME TO BOARD A SCHOONER; AND WHAT
         BEFELL THERE.

X.       TELLS IN WHAT MANNER I LEARNT THE SECRET OF THE GREAT KEY.

XI.      TELLS HOW AT LAST I FOUND MY REVENGE AND THE GREAT RUBY.

DEAD MAN'S ROCK.

BOOK I.

THE QUEST OF THE GREAT RUBY.

CHAPTER I.

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

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

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

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

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

The Will was dated "June 15th, 1837," and ran as follows:--

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

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

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

    "AMOS TRENOWETH."

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

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

CHAPTER II.

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

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

    "In midst of life we are in death.
        Oh! stretch Thine arm to save.
     Amid the storm's tumultuous breath
        And roaring of the wave."

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

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

                      "Covered with pellucid horn,
     To save from fingers wet the letters fair."

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

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

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

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

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

  _My Uncle_.  "To be sure, my dear."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Jasper, Jasper! wake up and listen!"

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

"Jasper, for the love of God wake up!"

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

"Oh, Jasper, listen, listen!"

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

"Mother, I hear nothing but the storm."

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

"Nothing else, mother, though that is bad enough."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Oh, Jasper, what could it be?--what could it be?"

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

"Jasper, tell me--it cannot have been--"

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

CHAPTER III.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What have you seen?"--and he caught me by the arm with a nervous
grip.

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

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

Suddenly he stopped.

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

"No, sir."

"Nor anybody?"

"Nobody, sir."

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

"Oh, no, sir."

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

I swore it.

"Say, 'Strike me blind if I have!'"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Got anything to eat?"

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

"Got any more?"

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

"What is your name?"

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

"Jasper Trenoweth."

"God in heaven!  What?"

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

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

"Father by any chance answering to the name of Ezekiel--Ezekiel
Trenoweth?"

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

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

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

"Sailed in the _Belle Fortune_, barque of 600 tons, or thereabouts,
bound for Port of Bristol?  Oh, ay, I knew him--knew him well.
And might this here place be Lantrig?"

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

"And why should anything have happened to Ezekiel Trenoweth?
That's what I want to know.  Why should anything have happened to
him?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What!  Father dead?"

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

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

"What's the matter, boy?  Speak, can't you?"

"It's a man."

"A man!  Where?"

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

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

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

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

"For the Lord's sake don't move.  Look; is he tall and dark?"

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

"Yes, he seems tall, and dark too, though I can't well see at--"

"Has he got earrings?"

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

"God defend us! that's he!  Curse him, curse him!  Lie down--lie
down, I say!  It's death if he catches sight of us."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Again I promised.

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

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

CHAPTER IV.

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

There was no escape.  I have said that the ascent of Dead Man's Rock
was possible, but that was upon the northern side, from which we were
now utterly cut off.  Hemmed in as we were between the sheer cliff
and the precipice, we could only sit still and await the man's
coming.  Utter fear had apparently robbed my companion of all his
faculties, for he sat, a stony image of despair, looking with
staring, vacant eyes at the spot where his enemy would appear; while
as for me, dreading I knew not what, I clung to the rock and listened
breathlessly to the sound of the footsteps as they came nearer and
nearer.  Presently, within about fifteen feet, as I guess, of our
hiding-place, they suddenly ceased, and a full, rich voice broke out
in song--

    "Sing hey! for the dead man's eyes, my lads;
        Sing ho! for the dead man's hand;
     For his glittering eyes are the salt sea's prize,
     And his fingers clutch the sand, my lads--
        Sing ho! how they grip the land!

    "Sing hey! for the dead man's lips, my lads;
        Sing ho! for the dead man's soul.
     At his red, red lips the merrymaid sips
     For the kiss that his sweetheart stole, my lads--
        Sing ho! for the bell shall toll!"

The words were full and clear upon the morning air--so clear that
their weird horror, together with the strangeness of the tune (which
had a curious catch in the last line but one) and, above all, the
sweetness of the voice, held me spellbound.  I glanced again at my
companion.  He had not changed his position, but still sat
motionless, save that his dry lips were again working and twitching
as though they tried to follow the words of the song.  Presently the
footsteps again began to advance, and again the voice broke out--

    "So it's hey! for the homeward bound, my lads,
        And ho! for the drunken crew.
     For his messmates round lie dead and drowned,
     And the devil has got his due, my Lads--
        Sing ho! but he--"

He saw us.  He had turned the corner, and stood facing us; and as he
faced us, I understood my companion's horror.  The new-comer wore a
shirt of the same red colour as my comrade, and trousers of the same
stuff, but less cut and torn with the rocks.  At his side hung an
empty sheath, that must once have held a short knife, and the handle
of another knife glittered above his waistband.  But it was his face
that fascinated all my gaze.  Even had I no other cause to remember
it, I could never forget the lines of that wicked mouth, or the
glitter in those cruel eyes as their first sharp flash of surprise
faded into a mocking and evil smile.

For a minute or so he stood tranquilly watching our confusion, while
the smile grew more and more devilishly bland.  Not a word was
spoken.  What my comrade did I know not, but, for myself, I could not
take my eyes from that fiendish face.

At last he spoke: in a sweet and silvery voice, that in company with
such eyes was an awful and fantastic lie, he spoke--

"Well, this is pleasant indeed.  To run across an old comrade in
flesh and blood when you thought him five fathom deep in the salt
water is one of the pleasantest things in life, isn't it, lad?
To put on sackcloth and ashes, to go about refusing to be comforted,
to find no joy in living because an old shipmate is dead and drowned,
and then suddenly to come upon him doing the very same for you--why,
there's nothing that compares with it for real, hearty pleasure; is
there, John?  You seem a bit dazed, John: it's too good to be true,
you think?  Well, it shows your good heart; shows what I call real
feeling.  But you always were a true friend, always the one to depend
upon, eh, John?  Why don't you speak, John, and say how glad you are
to see your old friend back, alive and hearty?"

John's lips were trembling, and something seemed working in his
throat, but no sound came.

"Ah, John, you were always the one for feeling a thing, and now the
joy is too much for you.  Considerate, too, it was of you, and really
kind--but that's you, John, all over--to wear an old shipmate's cap
in affectionate memory.  No, John, don't deprive yourself of it."

The wretched man felt with quivering fingers for the cap, took it
off and laid it on the rock beside me, but never spoke.

"And who is the boy, John?  But, there, you were always one to
make friends.  Everybody loves you; they can't help themselves.
Lucy loved you when she wouldn't look at me, would she?  You were
always so gentle and quiet, John, except perhaps when the drink was
in you: and even then you didn't mean any harm; it was only your
play, wasn't it, John?"

John's face was a shade whiter, and again something worked in his
throat, but still he uttered no word.

"Well, anyhow, John, it's a real treat to see you--and looking so
well, too.  To think that we two, of all men, should have been on the
jib-boom when she struck!  By the way, John, wasn't there another
with us?  Now I come to think of it, there must have been another.
What became of him?  Did he jump too, John?"

John found speech at last.  "No; I don't think he jumped."  The words
came hoarsely and with difficulty.  I looked at him; cold and
shivering as he was, the sweat was streaming down his face.

"No?  I wonder why."

No answer.

"You're quite sure about it, John? Because, you know, it would be a
thousand pities if he were thrown up on this desolate shore without
seeing the faces of his old friends.  So I hope you are quite sure,
John; think again."

"He didn't jump."

"No?"

"He fell."

"Poor fellow, poor fellow!"  The words came in the softest, sweetest
tones of pity.  "I suppose there is no mistake about his melancholy
end?"

"I saw him fall.  He just let go and fell; it's Bible oath, Captain--
it's Bible oath.  That's how it happened; he just--let go--and fell.
I saw it with my very eyes, and--Captain, it was your knife."
To this effect John, with great difficulty and a nervous shifting
stare that wandered from the Captain to me until it finally rested
somewhere out at sea.

The Captain gave a sharp keen glance, smiled softly, set his thin
lips together as though whistling inaudibly, and turned to me.

"So you know John, my boy?  He's a good fellow, is John; just the
sort of quiet, steady, Christian man to make a good companion for the
young.  No swearing, drinking, or vice about John Railton; and so
truthful, too--the very soul of truth!  Couldn't tell a lie for all
the riches of the Indies.  Ah, you are in luck to have such a friend!
It's not often a good companion is such good company."

I looked helplessly at the model of truth to see how he took this
tribute; but his eyes were still fixed in that eternal stare at the
sea.

"And so, John, you saw him fall?  'Who saw him die?'--'I,' said the
soul of truth, 'with my little eye'--and you have very sharp eyes,
John.  However, the poor fellow's gone; 'fell off,' you say?  I don't
wonder you feel it so; but, John, with all our sympathy for the
unfortunate dead, don't you think this is a good opportunity for
reading the Will?  We three, you know, may possibly never meet again,
and I am sure our young friend--what name did you say?  Jasper?--I am
sure that our young friend Mr. Jasper would like the melancholy
satisfaction of hearing the Will."

The man's eyes were devilish.  John, as he faced about and caught
their gaze, looked round like a wild beast at bay.

"Will?  What do you mean? I don't know--I haven't got no Will."

"None of your own, John, none of your own; but maybe you might know
something of the last Will and Testament of--shall we say--another
party?  Think, John; don't hurry, think a bit."

"Lord, strike me--"

"Hush, John, hush!  Think of our young friend Mr. Jasper.  Besides,
you know, you were such a friend of the deceased--such a real
friend--and knew all his secrets so thoroughly, John, that I am sure
if you only consider quietly, you must remember; you who watched his
last moments, who saw him--'fall,' did you say?"

No answer.

"Come, come, John; I'm sorry to press you, but really our young
friend and I must insist on an answer.  For consider, John, if you
refuse to join in our conversation, we shall have to go--reluctantly,
of course, but still we shall have to go--and talk somewhere else.
Just think how very awkward that would be."

"You devil--you devil!"

John's voice was still hoarse and low, but it had a something in it
now that sounded neither of hope nor fear.

"Well, yes; devil if you like: but the devil must have his due, you
know--

    "And the devil has got his due, my lads--
        Sing hey! but he waits for you!

"Yes, John, devil or no devil, _I'm_  waiting for you.  As to
having my due, why, a lucky fellow like you shouldn't grudge it.
Why, you've got Lucy, John: what more can you want?  We both wanted
Lucy, but you got her, and now she's waiting at home for you.
It would be awkward if I turned up with the news that you were
languishing in gaol--I merely put a case, John--and little Jenny
wouldn't have many sweethearts if it got about that her father--and I
suppose you are her father--"

Before the words were well out of his mouth John had him by the
throat.  There was a short, fierce struggle, an oath, a gleam of
light--and then, with a screech of mortal pain and a wild clutch at
the air, my companion fell backwards over the cliff.

It was all the work of a moment--a shriek, a splash, and then
silence.  How long the silence lasted I cannot tell.  What happened
next--whether I cried or fainted, looked or shut my eyes--is to me an
absolute blank.  Only I remember gradually waking up to the fact that
the Captain was standing over me, wiping his knife on a piece of weed
he had picked up on the rock, and regarding me with a steady stare.

I now suppose that during those few moments my life hung in the
balance: but at the time I was too dazed and stunned to comprehend
anything.  The Captain slowly replaced his knife, hesitated, went to
the ledge and peered over, and then finally came back to me.

"Are you the kind of boy that's talkative?" His voice was as sweet as
ever, but his eyes were scorching me like live coals.

I suppose I must have signified my denial, for he went on--

"You heard what he called me?  He called me a devil; a devil, mark
you; and that's what I am."

In my state of mind I could believe anything; so I easily believed
this.

"Being a devil, naturally I can hear what little boys say, no matter
where I am; and when little boys are talkative I can reach them, no
matter how they hide.  I come on them in bed sometimes, and sometimes
from behind when they are not looking; there's no escaping me.
You've heard of Apollyon perhaps?  Well, that's who I am."

I had heard of Apollyon in Bunyan; and I had no doubt he was speaking
the truth.

"I catch little boys when they are not looking, and carry them off,
and then their fathers and mothers don't see any more of them.
But they die very slowly, very slowly indeed--you will find out how
if ever I catch you talking."

But I did not at all want to know; I was quite satisfied, and
apparently he was also; for, after staring at me a little longer, he
told me to get up and go down the rock in front of him.

The agonies I suffered during that descent no pen can describe.
Every moment I expected to feel my shoulder gripped from behind, or
to feel the hands of some mysterious and infernal power around my
neck.  Close behind me followed my companion, humming--

    "And the devil has got his due, my lads--
        Sing hey! but he waits for you!"

And though I was far from singing hey! at the prospect, I felt that
he meant what he said.

Arrived at the foot of the rock, we passed through the archway on to
Ready-Money Cove.  Turning down to the edge of the sea, the Captain
scanned the water narrowly, but there was no trace of the hapless
John.  With a muttered curse, he began quickly to climb out along the
north side of the rock, just above the sea-level, and looked again
into the depths.  Once more he was disappointed.  Flinging off his
clothes, he dived again and again, until from sheer exhaustion he
crept out, bundled on his shirt and trousers, and climbed back to me.

"Curse him! where can he be?"

I now saw for the first time how terribly worn and famished the man
was: he looked like a wolf, and his white teeth were bare in his
rage.  He had cut his foot on the rock.  Still keeping his evil eye
upon me, he knelt down by the water's edge and began slowly to bathe
the wound.

"By the way, boy, what did you say your name was?  Jasper?  Jasper
what?"

"Trenoweth."

"Ten thousand devils!"

He was on his feet, and had gripped me by the shoulder with a furious
clutch.  I turned sick and cold with terror.  The blue sky swam and
circled around me: then came mist and black darkness, lit only by the
gleam of two terrible eyes: a shout--and I knew no more.

CHAPTER V.

TELLS HOW THE SAILOR GEORGIO RHODOJANI GAVE EVIDENCE AT THE
"LUGGER INN."

I came gradually back to consciousness amid a buzz of voices.
Uncle Loveday was bending over me, his every button glistening with
sympathy, and his face full of kindly anxiety.  What had happened, or
how I came to be lying thus upon the sand, I could not at first
remember, until my gaze, wandering over my uncle's shoulder, met the
Captain's eyes regarding me with a keen and curious stare.

He was standing in the midst of a small knot of fishermen, every now
and then answering their questions with a gesture, a shrug of the
shoulders, or shake of the head; but chiefly regarding my recovery
and waiting, as I could see, for me to speak.

"Poor boy!" said Uncle Loveday.  "Poor boy! I suppose the sight of
this man frightened him."

I caught the Captain's eye, and nodded feebly.

"Ah, yes, yes.  You see," he explained, turning to the shipwrecked
man, "your sudden appearance upset him: and to tell you the honest
truth, my friend, in your present condition--in your present
condition, mind you--your appearance is perhaps somewhat--startling.
Shall we say, startling?"

In answer to my uncle's apologetic hesitation the stranger merely
spread out his palms and shrugged his shoulders.

"Ah, yes.  A foreigner evidently.  Well, well, although our coast is
not precisely hospitable, I believe its inhabitants are at any rate
free from that reproach.  Jasper, my boy, can you walk now?  If so,
Joseph here will see you home, and we will do our best for the--the--
foreign gentleman thus unceremoniously cast on our shores."

My uncle seemed to regard magnificence of speech as the natural due
of a foreigner: whether from some hazy conception of "foreign
politeness," or a hasty deduction that what was not the language of
one part of the world must be that of another, I cannot say.  At any
rate, the fishermen regarded him approvingly as the one man who
could--if human powers were equal to it--extricate them from the
present deadlock.

"You do not happen, my friend, to be in a position to inform us
whether any--pardon the expression--any corpses are now lying on the
rocks to bear witness to this sad catastrophe?"

Again the stranger made a gesture of perplexity.

"Dear, dear! I forgot.  Jasper, when you get home, read very
carefully that passage about the Tower of Babel.  Whatever the cause
of that melancholy confusion, its reality is impressed upon us when
we stand face to face with one whom I may perhaps be allowed to call,
metaphorically, a dweller in Mesopotamia."

As no one answered, my uncle took silence for consent, and called him
so twice--to his own great satisfaction and the obvious awe of the
fishermen.

"It is evident," he continued, "that this gentleman (call him by what
name you will) is in immediate need of food and raiment.  If such, as
I do not doubt, can be obtained at Polkimbra, our best course is to
accompany him thither.  I trust my proposition meets with his
approval."

It met, at any rate, with the approval of the fishermen, who
translated Uncle Loveday's speech into gestures.  Being answered with
a nod of the head and a few hasty foreign words, they began to lead
the stranger away in their midst.  As he turned to go, he glanced for
the last time at me with a strange flickering smile, at which my
heart grew sick.  Uncle Loveday lingered behind to adjure Joe to be
careful of me as we went up the cliff, and then, with a promise that
he would run in to see mother later in the day, trotted after the
rest.  They passed out of sight through the archway of Dead Man's
Rock.

For a minute or so we plodded across the sand in silence.  Joe
Roscorla was Uncle Loveday's "man," a word in our parts connoting
ability to look after a horse, a garden, a pig or two, or, indeed,
anything that came in the way of being looked after.  At the present
moment I came in that way; consequently, after some time spent in
reflective silence, Joe began to speak.

"You'm looking wisht."

"Am I, Joe?"

"Mortal."

There was a pause: then Joe continued--

"I don't hold by furriners: let alone they be so hard to get
along with in the way of convarsing, they be but a heathen lot.
But, Jasper, warn't it beautiful?"

"What, Joe?"

"Why, to see the doctor tackle the lingo.  Beautiful, I culls it; but
there, he's a scholard, and no mistake, and 'tain't no good for to
say he ain't.  Not as ever I've heerd it said."

"But, Joe, the man didn't seem to understand him."

"Durn all furriners, say I; they be so cursed pigheaded.  Understand?
I'll go bail he understood fast enough."

Joe's opinions coincided so fatally with my certainty that I held my
tongue.

"A dweller in--what did he call the spot, Jasper?"

"Mesopotamia."

"Well, I can't azacly say as I've seen any from them parts, but they
be all of a piece.  Thicky chap warn't in the way when prettiness was
sarved out, anyhow.  Of all the cut-throat chaps as ever I see--Mark
my words, 'tain't no music as he's come after."

This seemed so indisputable that I did not venture to contradict it.

"I bain't clear about thicky wreck.  Likely as not 'twas the one I
seed all yesterday tacking about: and if so be as I be right, a
pretty lot of lubbers she must have had aboard.  Jonathan, the
coast-guard, came down to Lizard Town this morning, and said he seed
a big vessel nigh under the cliffs toward midnight, or fancied he
seed her: but fustly Jonathan's a buffle-head, and secondly 'twas
pitch-dark; so if as he swears there weren't no blue light, 'tain't
likely any man could see, let alone a daft fule like Jonathan.
But, there, 'tain't no good for to blame he; durn Government! say I,
for settin' one man, and him a born fule, to mind seven mile o' coast
on a night when an airey mouse cou'dn' see his hand afore his face."

"What was the vessel like, Joe, that you saw?"

"East Indyman, by the looks of her; and a passel of lubberin'
furriners aboard, by the way she was worked.  I seed her miss stays
twice myself: so when Jonathan turns up wi' this tale, I says to
myself, 'tis the very same.  Though 'tis terrible queer he never
heard nowt; but he ain't got a ha'porth o' gumption, let alone that
by time he's been cloppin' round his seven mile o' beat half a dozen
ships might go to kingdom come."

With this, for we had come to the door of Lantrig, Joe bid me
good-bye, and turned along the cliffs to seek fresh news at
Polkimbra.

Instead of going indoors at once I watched his short, oddly-shaped
figure stride away, and then sat down on the edge of the cliff for a
minute to collect my thoughts.  The day was ripening into that mellow
glory which is the peculiar grace of autumn.  Below me the sea, still
flaked with spume, was gradually heaving to rest; the morning light
outlined the cliffs in glistening prominence, and clothed them, as
well as the billowy clouds above, with a reality which gave the lie
to my morning's adventure.  The old doorway, too, looked so familiar
and peaceful, the old house so reassuring, that I half wondered if I
had not two lives, and were not coming back to the old quiet everyday
experience again.

Suddenly I remembered the packet and the letter.  I put my hand into
my pocket and drew them out.  The packet was a tin box, strapped
around with a leathern band: on the top, between the band and the
box, was a curious piece of yellow metal that looked like the half of
a waist-buckle, having a socket but without any corresponding hook.
On the metal were traced some characters which I could not read.
The tin box was heavy and plain, and the strap soaking with salt
water.

I turned to the letter; it was all but a pulp, and in its present
state illegible.  Carefully smoothing it out, I slipped it inside the
strap and turned to hide my prize; for such was my fear of the man
who called himself Apollyon, that I could know no peace of mind
whilst it remained about me.  How should I hide it?  After some
thought, I remembered that a stone or two in the now empty cow-house
had fallen loose.  With a hasty glance over my shoulder, I crept
around and into the shed.  The stones came away easily in my hand.
With another hurried look, I slipped the packet into the opening,
stole out of the shed, and entered the house by the back door.

My mother had been up for some time--it was now about nine o'clock--
and had prepared our breakfast.  Her face was still pale, but some of
its anxiety left it as I entered.  She was evidently waiting for me
to speak.  Something in my looks, however, must have frightened her,
for, as I said nothing, she began to question me.

"Well, Jasper, is there any news?"

"There was a ship wrecked on Dead Man's Rock last night, but they've
not found anything except--"

"What was it called?"

"The _Mary Jane_--that is--I don't quite know."

Up to this time I had forgotten that mother would want to know about
my doings that morning.  As an ordinary thing, of course I should
have told her whatever I had seen or heard, but my terror of the
Captain and the awful consequences of saying too much now flashed
upon me with hideous force.  I had heard about the _Mary Jane_ from
the unhappy John.  What if I had already said too much?  I bent over
my breakfast in confusion.

After a dreadful pause, during which I felt, though I could not see,
the astonishment in my mother's eyes, she said--

"You don't quite know?"

"No; I think it must have been the _Mary Jane_, but there was a
strange sailor picked up.  Uncle Loveday found him, and he seemed to
be a foreigner, and he said--I mean--I thought--it was the name,
but--"

This was worse and worse.  Again at my wits' end, I tried to go on
with my breakfast.  After awhile I looked up, and saw my mother
watching me with a look of mingled surprise and reproach.

"Was this sailor the only one saved?"

"No--that is, I mean--yes; they only found one."

I had never lied to my mother before, and almost broke down with the
effort.  Words seemed to choke me, and her saddening eyes filled me
with torment.

"Jasper dear, what is the matter with you?  Why are you so strange?"

I tried to look astonished, but broke down miserably.  Do what I
would, my eyes seemed to be beyond my control; they would not meet
her steady gaze.

"Uncle Loveday is coming up later on.  He's looking after the Cap--I
mean the sailor, and said he would run in afterwards."

"What is this sailor like?"

This question fairly broke me down.  Between my dread of the Captain
and her pained astonishment, I could only sit stammering and longing
for the earth to gape and swallow me up.  Suddenly a dreadful
suspicion struck my mother.

"Jasper!  Jasper! it cannot be--you cannot mean--that it was _his_
ship?"

"No, mother, no!  Father is all right.  He said--I mean--it was not
his ship."

"Oh! thank God! But you are hiding something from me!  What is it?
Jasper dear, what are you hiding?"

"Mother, I think it was the _Mary Jane_.  But it was not father's
ship.  Father's all right.  And, mother, don't ask me any more; Uncle
Loveday will tell all about it.  And--I'm not very well, mother.  I
think--"

Want of sleep, indeed, and the excitement of the morning, had broken
me down.  My mother stifled her desire to hear more, and tenderly saw
me to bed, guessing my fatigue, but only dimly apprehensive of
anything beyond.  In bed I lay all that morning, but could get no
sleep.  The vengeance of that dreadful man seemed to fill the little
room and charge the atmosphere with horror.  "I come on them in bed
sometimes, and sometimes from behind when they're not looking"--the
words rang in my ears, and could not be muffled by the bed-clothes;
whilst, if I began to doze, the dreadful burthen of his song--

    "And the devil has got his due, my lads--
        Sing ho! but he waits for you!"--

With the peculiar catch of its lilt, would suddenly make me start up,
wide awake, with every nerve in my body dancing to its grisly
measure.

At last, towards noon, I dozed off into a restless slumber, but only
to see each sight and hear each sound repeated with every grotesque
and fantastic variation.  Dead Man's Rock rose out of a sea of blood,
peopled with hundreds of ghastly faces, each face the distorted
likeness of John or the Captain.  Blood was everywhere--on their
shirts, their hands, their faces, in splashes across the rock itself,
in vivid streaks across the spume of the sea.  The very sun peered
through a blood-red fog, and the waves, the mournful gulls, the
echoes from the cliff, took up the everlasting chorus, led by one
silvery demoniac voice--

    "Sing ho! but he waits for you!"

Finally, as I lay tossing and tormented with this phantom horror in
my eyes and ears, the sound died imperceptibly away into the soft
hush of two well-known voices, and I opened my eyes to see mother
with Uncle Loveday standing at my bedside.

"The boy's a bit feverish," said my uncle's voice; "he has not got
over his fright just yet."

"Hush! he's waking!" replied my mother; and as I opened my eyes she
bent down and kissed me.  How inexpressibly sweet was that kiss after
the nightmare of my dream!

"Jasper dear, are you better now?  Try to lie down and get some more
sleep."

But I was eager to know what news Uncle Loveday had to tell, so I sat
up and questioned him.  There was little enough; though, delivered
with much pomp, it took some time in telling.  Roughly, it came to
this:--

A body had been discovered--the body of a small infant--washed up on
the Polkimbra Beach.  This would give an opportunity for an inquest;
and, in fact, the coroner was to arrive that afternoon from Penzance
with an interpreter for the evidence of the strange sailor, who, it
seemed, was a Greek.  Little enough had been got from him, but he
seemed to imply that the vessel had struck upon Dead Man's Rock from
the south-west, breaking her back upon its sunken base, and then
slipping out and subsiding in the deep water.  It must have happened
at high tide, for much coffee and basket-work was found upon
high-water line.  This fixed the time of the disaster at about
4 a.m., and my mother's eyes met mine, as we both remembered that it
was about that hour when we heard the wild despairing cry.  For the
rest, it was hopeless to seek information from the Greek sailor
without an interpreter; nor were there any clothes or identifying
marks on the child's body.  The stranger had been clothed and fed at
the Vicarage, and would give his evidence that afternoon.  Hitherto,
the name of the vessel was unknown.

At this point my mother's eyes again sought mine, and I feared fresh
inquiries about the _Mary Jane_; but, luckily, Uncle Loveday had
recurred to the question of the Tower of Babel, on which he delivered
several profound reflections.  Seeing me still disinclined to
explain, she merely sighed, and was silent.

But when Uncle Loveday had broken his fast and, rising, announced
that he must drive down to be present at the inquest, to our
amazement, mother insisted upon going with him.  Having no suspicion
of her deadly fear, he laughed a little at first, and quoted Solomon
on the infirmities of women to an extent that made me wonder what
Aunt Loveday would have said had he dared broach such a subject to
that strong-minded woman.  Seeing, however, that my mother was set
upon going, he desisted at last, and put his cart at her service.
Somewhat to her astonishment, as I could see, I asked to be allowed
to go also, and, after some entreaty, prevailed.  So we all set out
behind Uncle Loveday's over-fed pony for Polkimbra.

There was a small crowd around the door of the "Lugger Inn" when we
drove up.  It appeared that the coroner had just arrived, and the
inquest was to begin at once.  Meanwhile, the folk were busy with
conjecture.  They made way, however, for my uncle, who, being on such
occasions a person of no little importance, easily gained us entry
into the Red Room where the inquiry was about to be held.  As we
stepped along the passage, the landlord's parrot, looking more than
ever like Aunt Elizabeth, almost frightened me out of my wits by
crying, "All hands lost! All hands lost! Lord ha' mercy on us!" Its
hoarse note still sounded in my ears, when the door opened, and we
stood in presence of the "crowner's quest."

I suppose the Red Room of the "Lugger" was full; and, indeed, as the
smallest inquest involves at least twelve men and a coroner, to say
nothing of witnesses, it must have been very full.  But for me, as
soon as my foot crossed the threshold, there was only one face, only
one pair of eyes, only one terrible presence, to be conscious of and
fear.  I saw him at once, and he saw me; but, unless it were that his
cruel eye glinted and his lips grew for the moment white and fixed,
he betrayed no consciousness of my presence there.

The coroner was speaking as we entered, but his voice sounded as
though far away and faint.  Uncle Loveday gave evidence, and I have a
dim recollection of two rows of gleaming buttons, but nothing more.
Then Jonathan, the coast-guardsman, was called.  He had seen, or
fancied he saw, a ship in distress near Gue Graze; had noticed no
light nor heard any signal of distress; had given information at
Lizard Town.  The rocket apparatus had been got out, and searchers
had scoured the cliffs as far as Porth Pyg, but nothing was to be
seen.  The search-party were returning, when they found a shipwrecked
sailor in company with a small boy, one Jasper Trenoweth, in
Ready-Money Cove.

At the sound of my own name I started, and for the second time since
our entry felt the eyes of the stranger question me.  At the same
time I felt my mother's clasp of my hand tighten, and knew that she
saw that look.

The air grew closer and the walls seemed to draw nearer as Jonathan's
voice continued its drowsy tale.  The afternoon sun poured in at the
window until it made the little wainscoted parlour like an oven, but
still for me it only lit up one pair of eyes.  The voices sounded
more and more like those of a dream; the scratching of pens and
shuffling of feet were, to my ears, as distant murmurs of the sea,
until the coroner's voice called--"Georgio Rhodojani."

Instantly I was wide awake, with every nerve on the stretch.  Again I
felt his eyes question me, again my mother's hand tightened upon
mine, as the stranger stood up and in softest, most musical tones
gave his evidence.  And the evidence of Georgio Rhodojani, Greek
sailor, as translated by Jacopo Rousapoulos, interpreter, of
Penzance, was this:--

"My name is Georgio Rhodojani.  I am a Greek by birth, and have been
a sailor all my life.  I was seaman on board the ship which was
wrecked last night on your horrible coast.  The ship belonged to
Bristol, and was homeward bound, but I know neither her name nor the
name of her captain."

At this strange opening, amazement fell upon all.  For myself, the
wild incongruity of this foreign tongue from lips which I had heard
utter such fluent and flute-like English swallowed up all other
wonder.

After a pause, seeing the marvelling looks of his audience, the
witness quietly explained--

"You wonder at this; but I am Greek, and cannot master your hard
names.  I joined the ship at Colombo as the captain was short of
hands.  I was wrecked in a Dutch vessel belonging to Dordrecht, off
Java, and worked my passage to Ceylon, seeking employment.  It is
not, therefore, extraordinary that I am so ignorant, and my mouth
cannot pronounce your English language, but show me your list of
ships and I will point her out to you."

There was a rustling of papers, and a list of East Indiamen was
handed up to him: he hastily ran his finger over the pages.  Suddenly
his face lighted up.

"Ah! this is she!--this is the ship that was wrecked last night!"

The coroner took the paper and slowly read out--"The _James and
Elizabeth_, of Bristol.  Captain--Antonius Merrydew."

"Ah, yes, that is she.  The babe here was the captain's child, born
on the voyage.  There were eighteen men on board, an English boy, and
the captain's wife.  The child was born off the African coast.
We sailed from Colombo on the 22nd of July last, with a cargo of
coffee and sugar.  Two days ago we were off a big harbour, of which I
do not know the name; but early yesterday morning were abreast of
what you call, I think, the Lizard.  The wind was S.W., and took us
into your terrible bay.  All yesterday we were tacking to get out.
Towards evening it blew a gale.  The captain had been ill ever since
we passed the Bay of Biscay.  We hoisted no signal, and knew not what
to do, for the captain was sick, and the mate drunk.  The mate began
to cry when we struck.  I alone got on to the jib-boom and jumped.
What became of the others I know not, but I jumped on to the rock by
which you found me this morning.  The vessel broke up in a very short
time.  I heard the men crying bitterly, but the mate's voice was
louder than any.  The captain of course was below, and so, when last
I saw them, were his wife and child, but she might have rushed upon
deck.  I was almost sucked back twice, but managed to scramble up.
It was not until daylight that I knew I was on the mainland, and
climbed down to the sands."

As this strange history proceeded, I know not who in that little
audience was most affected.  The jury, fascinated by the sweet voice
of the speaker, as well as the mystery about the vessel and its
unwitnessed disappearance, leant forward in their seats with strained
and breathless attention.  My mother could not take her eyes off the
stranger's face.  As he hesitated over the name of the ship, her very
lips grew white in agonised suspense, but when the coroner read "the
_James and Elizabeth_," she sank back in her seat with a low
"Thank God!" that told me what she had dreaded, and how terribly.
I myself knew not what to think, nor if my ears had heard aright.
Part of the tale I knew to be a lie; but how much?  And what of the
_Mary Jane?_ I looked round about.  A hush had succeeded the closing
words of Rhodojani.  Even the coroner was puzzled for a moment; but
improbable as the evidence might seem, there was none to gainsay it.
I alone, had they but known it, could give this demon the lie--I, an
unnoticed child.

The coroner put a question or two and then summed up.  Again the old
drowsy insensibility fell upon me.  I heard the jury return the
usual verdict of "Accidental Death," and, as my mother led me from
the room, the voice of Joe Roscorla (who had been on the jury)
saying, "Durn all foreigners! I don't hold by none of 'em."  As the
door slammed behind us, shutting out at last those piercing eyes, a
shrill screech from the landlord's parrot echoed through the house--

"All hands lost!  Lord ha' mercy on us!"

CHAPTER VI.

TELLS HOW A FACE LOOKED IN AT THE WINDOW OF LANTRIG; AND IN WHAT
MANNER MY FATHER CAME HOME TO US.

My mother and I walked homeward together by way of the cliffs.
We were both silent.  My heart ached to tell the whole story, and
prove that my tale of the _Mary Jane_ was no wanton lie; but fear
restrained me.  My mother was busy with her own thoughts.  She had
seen, I knew, the glance of intelligence which the stranger gave me;
she guessed that his story was a lie and that I knew it.  What she
could not guess was the horror that held my tongue fastened as with a
padlock.  So, both busy with bitter thoughts, we walked in silence to
Lantrig.

The evening meal was no better.  My food choked me, and after a
struggle I was forced to let it lie almost untouched.  But when the
fire was stirred, the candles lit, and I drew my footstool as usual
to her feet by the hearth, the old room looked so warm and cosy that
my pale fears began to vanish in its genial glow.  I had possessed
myself of the "Pilgrim's Progress," and the volume, a dumpy octavo,
lay on my knee.  As I read the story of Christian and Apollyon to its
end, a new courage fought in me with my morning fears.

"In this combat no man can imagine, unless he has seen and heard as I
did, what yelling and hideous roaring Apollyon made all the time of
the fight: he _spake like a dragon_; and, on the other side, what
sighs and groans burst from Christian's heart.  I never saw him all
the while give so much as one pleasant look, till he perceived that
he had wounded Apollyon with his two-edged sword; then indeed he did
smile and look upward! but it was the dreadfullest sight that ever I
saw."

I glanced up at my mother, half resolved.  She was leaning forward a
little and gazing into the fire, that lit up her pale face and
wonderful eyes with a sympathetic softness.  I can remember now how
sweet she looked and how weary--that tender figure outlined in warm
glow against the stern, dark room.  And all the time her heart was
slowly breaking with yearning for him that came not.  I did not know
it then; but when does childhood know or understand the suffering of
later life?  I looked down upon the page once more, turned back a
leaf or two, and read:

"Then did Christian begin to be afraid, and to cast in his mind
whether to go back or stand his ground.  But he considered again that
he had no armour for his back, and therefore thought that to turn his
back to him might give him greater advantage, with ease to pierce him
with his darts; therefore he resolved to venture and stand his
ground."

"I come on them in bed sometimes, and sometimes from behind."
The words of my Apollyon came across my mind.  Should I speak and
seek counsel?--What was that?

It was a tear that fell upon my hand as it lay across my mother's
lap.  Since the day when father left us I had never seen her weep.
Was it for my deceit?  I looked up again and saw that her eyes were
brimming with sorrow.  My fears and doubts were forgotten.  I would
speak and tell her all my tale.

"Mother."

Somewhat ashamed at being discovered, she dried her eyes and tried to
smile--a poor pitiful smile, with the veriest ghost of joy in it.

"Yes, Jasper."

"Is Apollyon still alive?"

"He stands for the powers of evil, Jasper, and they are always
alive."

"But, I mean, does he walk about the world like a man?  Is he
_really_ alive?"

"Why, no, Jasper.  What nonsense has got into your head now?"

"Because, mother, I met him to-day.  That is, he said he was
Apollyon, and that he would come and carry me off if--"

Half apprehensive at my boldness, I cast an anxious look around as I
spoke.  Nothing met my eyes but the familiar furniture and the
dancing shadows on the wall, until their gaze fell upon the window,
and rested there, whilst my heart grew suddenly stiff with terror,
and my tongue clave to my mouth.

As my voice broke off suddenly, mother glanced at me in expectation.
Seeing my fixed stare and dropped jaw, she too looked at the window,
then started to her feet with a shriek.

For there, looking in upon us with a wicked smile, was the white face
of the sailor Rhodojani.

For a second or two, petrified with horror, we stood staring at it.
The evil smile flickered for a moment, baring the white teeth and
lighting the depths of those wolfish eyes; then, with a fiendish
laugh, vanished in the darkness.

He had, then, told the truth when he promised to haunt me.
Beyond the shock of mortal terror, I was but little amazed.
It seemed but natural that he should come as he had threatened.
Only I was filled with awful expectation of his vengeance, and stood
aghast at the consequences of my rashness.  By instinct I turned to
my mother for protection.

But what ailed her?  She had fallen back in her chair and was still
staring with parted lips at the dark pane that a minute ago had
framed the horrid countenance.  When at last she spoke, her words
were wild and meaningless, with a dreadful mockery of laughter that
sent a swift pang of apprehension to my heart.

"Mother, it is gone.  What is the matter?"

Again a few meaningless syllables and that awful laugh.

And so throughout that second awful night did she mutter and laugh,
whilst I, helpless and terror-stricken, strove to soothe her and
recall her to speech and sense.  The slow hours dragged by, and still
I knelt before her waiting for the light.  The slow clock sounded the
hours, and still she gave no sign of understanding.  The mice crept
out of their accustomed holes and jumped back startled at her laugh.
The fire died low and the candles died out; the wind moaned outside,
the tamarisk branches swished against the pane; the hush of night,
with its intervals of mysterious sound, held the house; but all the
time she never ceased to gaze upon the window, and every now and
then to mutter words that were no echo of her mind or voice.
Daylight, with its premonitory chill, crept upon us at last, but oh,
how slowly!  Daylight looked in and found us as that cruel sight had
left us, helpless and alone.

But with daylight came some courage.  Had there been neighbours near
Lantrig I should have run to summon them before, but Polkimbra was
the nearest habitation, and Polkimbra was almost two miles off,
across a road possessed by horrors and perhaps tenanted by that
devilish face.  And how could I leave my mother alone?  But now that
day had come I would run to Lizard Town and see Uncle Loveday.
I slipped on my boots, unbolted the door, cast a last look at my
mother still sitting helpless and vacant of soul, and rushed from the
house.  The sound of her laughter rang in my ears as the door closed
behind me.

Weak, haggard and wild of aspect, I ran and stumbled along the
cliffs.  Dead Man's Rock lay below wrapped in a curtain of mist.
Thick clouds were rolling up from seaward; the grey light of
returning day made sea, sky and land seem colourless and wan.
But for me there was no sight but Polkimbra ahead.  As I gained the
little village I ran down the hill to the "Lugger" and knocked upon
the door.  Heavens! how long it was before I was answered.  At last
the landlady's head appeared at an upper window.  With a few words to
Mrs. Busvargus, which caused that worthy soul to dress in haste with
many ejaculations, I raced up the hill again and across the downs for
Lizard Town.  My strength was giving way; my head swam, my sides
ached terribly, my legs almost refused to obey my will, and a
thousand lights danced and sparkled before my eyes, but still I kept
on, now staggering, now stumbling, but still onward, nor stopped
until I stood before Uncle Loveday's door.

There at last I fell; but luckily against the door, so that in a
moment or two I became conscious of Aunt Elizabeth standing over me
and regarding me as a culprit caught red-handed in some atrocious
crime.

"Hoity-toity!  What's the matter now?  Why, it's Jasper!  Well, of
all the freaks, to come knocking us up!  What's the matter with the
boy?  Jasper, what ails you?"

Incoherently I told my story, at first to Aunt Elizabeth alone, but
presently, in answer to her call, Uncle Loveday came down to hear.
The pair stood silent and wondering.

They were not elaborately dressed.  Aunt Elizabeth, it is true, was
smothered from head to foot in a gigantic Inverness cape, that might
have been my uncle's were it not obviously too large for that little
man.  Her nightcap, on the other hand, was ostentatiously her own.
No other woman would have had strength of mind to wear such a
head-dress.  Uncle Loveday's costume was even more singular; for the
first time I saw him without a single brass button, and for the first
time I understood how much he owed to those decorations.  His first
words were--

"Jasper, I hope you are telling me the truth.  Your mother told me
yesterday of some cock-and-bull story concerning the _Anna Maria_ or
some such vessel.  I hope this is not another such case.  I have told
you often enough where little boys who tell falsehoods go to."

My white face must have been voucher for my truth on this occasion;
for Aunt Elizabeth cut him short with the single word "Breakfast,"
and haled me into the little parlour whilst the pair went to dress.

As I waited, I heard the sound of the pony without, and presently
Aunt Elizabeth returned in her ordinary costume to worry the small
servant who laid breakfast.  Whether Uncle Loveday ever had that meal
I do not know to this day, for whilst it was being prepared I saw him
get into the little carriage and drive off towards Lantrig.  I was
told that I could not go until I had eaten; and so with a sore heart,
but no thought of disobedience, I turned to breakfast.

The meal had scarcely begun when the door opened and Master Thomas
Loveday sauntered into the room.  Master Thomas Loveday, a youth of
some eight summers, was, in default of a home of his own, quartered
permanently upon my uncle, whose brother's son he was.  His early
days had been spent in India.  After, however, both father and mother
had succumbed to the climate of Madras, he was sent home to England,
and had taken root in Lizard Town.  Hitherto, his life had been one
long lazy slumber.  Whenever we were sent, on his rare visits to
Lantrig, to "play together," as old age always rudely puts it, his
invariable rule had been to go to sleep on the first convenient spot.
Consequently his presence embarrassed me not a little.  He was a
handsome boy, with blue eyes, long lashes, fair hair, and a gentle
habit of speech.  When I came to know him better, I learnt the quick
wit and subtle power that lay beneath his laziness of manner; but at
present the soul of Thomas Loveday slept.

He was certainly not wide awake when he entered the room.  With a
sleepy nod at me, and no trace of surprise at my presence, he pursued
his meal.  Occasionally, as Aunt Elizabeth put a fresh question, he
would regard her with a long stare, but otherwise gave no sign of
animation.  This finally so exasperated my aunt that she addressed
him--

"Thomas, do not stare."

Thomas looked mildly surprised for a moment, and then inquired, "Why
not?"

"Does the boy think I'm a wild Indian?"  The question was addressed
to me, but I could not say, so kept a discreet silence.  Thomas
relieved me from my difficulty by answering, "No," thoughtfully.

"Then why stare so?  I'm sure I don't know what boys are made of,
nowadays."

"Slugs and snails and puppy-dogs' tails," was the dreamy answer.

"Thomas, how dare you?  I should like to catch the person who taught
you such nonsense.  I'd teach him!"

"It was Uncle Loveday," remarked the innocent Thomas.

There was an awful pause; which I broke at length by asking to be
allowed to go.  Aunt Elizabeth saw her way to getting rid of the
offender.

"Thomas, you might walk with Jasper over the downs to Lantrig.
It will be nice exercise for you."

"It may be exercise, aunt, but--"

"Do not answer me, but go.  Where do you expect little boys will go
to, who are always idle?"

"Sleep?" hazarded Thomas.

"Thomas, you shall learn the whole of Dr. Watts's poem on the
sluggard before you go to bed this night."

At this the boy slowly rose, took his cap, stood before her, and
solemnly repeated the whole of that melancholy tale, finishing the
last line at the door and gravely bowing himself out.  I followed,
awestruck, and we set out in silence.

At first, anxiety for my mother possessed all my thoughts, but
presently I ventured to congratulate Tom on his performance.

"She has read it to me so often," replied he, "that I can't help
knowing it.  I hate Dr. Watts, and I love to go to sleep.  I dream
such jolly things.  Sleep is ever so much nicer than being awake,
isn't it?"

I wanted sleep, having had but little for two nights, and could
therefore agree with him.

"You get such jolly adventures when you dream," said Tom,
reflectively.

I had been rather surfeited with adventures lately, so held my peace.

"Now, real life is so dull.  If one could only meet with
adventures--"

I caught the sound of wheels behind us, and turned round.  We had
struck off the downs on to the high road.  A light gig with one
occupant was approaching us.  As it drew near the driver hailed us.

"Hullo! lads, is this the road for Polkimbra?"

The speaker was a short, grizzled, seafaring man, with a kind face
and good-humoured mouth.  He drove execrably, and pulled his quiet
mare right back upon her haunches.

I answered that it was.

"Are you bound for there?  Yes?  Jump up then.  I'll give you a
lift."

I looked at Tom; he, of course, was ready for anything that would
save trouble, so we clambered up beside the stranger.

"There was a wreck there yesterday, I've heard," said he, after we
had gone a few yards, "and an inquest, and, by the tale I heard, a
lot of lies told."

I started.  The man did not notice it, but continued--

"Maybe you've heard of it.  Well, it's a rum world, and a fine lot of
lies gets told every day, but you don't often get so accomplished a
liar as that chap--what's his name?  Blessed if I can tackle it; not
but what it's another lie, I'll wager."

I was listening intently.  He continued more to himself than to us--

"An amazing liar, though I wonder what his game was.  It beats me;
beats me altogether.  The '_James and Elizabeth_,' says he, as large
as life.  I take it the fellow couldn't 'a been fooling who brought
the news to Falmouth.  Didn't know me from Adam, and was fairly put
about when he saw how I took it, and, says he, ''twas the _James and
Elizabeth_ the chap said, as sure as I stand here.'  Boy, do you
happen to know the name of the vessel that ran ashore here, night
afore last?"

I had grown accustomed to being asked this dreadful question, and
therefore answered as bravely as I could.  "The _James and
Elizabeth_, sir."

"Captain's name?"

"Captain Antonius Merrydew."

"Ah, poor chap! He was lying sick below when she struck, wasn't he?
And he had a wife aboard, and a child born at sea, hadn't he?
Fell sick in the Bay o' Biscay, like any land-lubber, didn't he?
Why, 'tis like play-actin'; damme! 'tis better than that."

With this the man burst into a shout of laughter and slapped his
thigh until his face grew purple with merriment.

"What d'ye think of it, boy, for a rare farce?  Was ever the likes of
it heard?  Captain Antonius Merrydew sick in the Bay o' Biscay!
Ho, ho! Where's play-actin' beside it?"

"Wasn't it true, sir?"

"True?  God bless the boy!   Look me in the face: look me in the
face, and then ask me if it's true."

"But why should it not be true, sir?"

"Because I am Captain Antonius Merrydew!"

For the rest of the journey I sat stunned.  Thomas beside me was wide
awake and staring, seeing his way to an adventure at last.  It was I
that dreamed--I heard without comprehension the rest of the captain's
tale:--how he had come, after a quick passage from Ceylon, to
Falmouth with the barque _James and Elizabeth_, just in time to hear
of this monstrous lie; how he was unmarried, and never had a day's
illness in his life; how, suspecting foul play, he had hired a horse
and gig with a determination to drive over to Polkimbra and learn the
truth; how a horse and gig were the most cursedly obstinate of
created things; with much besides in the way of oaths and
ejaculations.  All this I must have heard, for memory brought them
back later; but I did not listen.  My life and circumstances had got
the upper hand of me, and were dancing a devil's riot.

At last, after much tacking and porting of helm, we navigated
Polkimbra Hill and cast anchor before the "Lugger."  There we
alighted, thanked the captain, and left him piping all hands to the
horse's head.  His cheery voice followed us down to the sands.

We had determined to cut across Polkimbra Beach and climb up to
Lantrig by Ready-Money Cliffs, as in order to go along the path above
the cliffs we should have to ascend Polkimbra Hill again.  The beach
was so full of horror to me that without a companion I could not have
crossed it; but Tom's presence lent me courage.  Tom was nearer to
excitement than I had ever seen him; he grew voluble; praised the
captain, admired his talk, and declared adventure to be abroad in the
air--in fact, threw up his head as though he scented it.

Yes, adventure was in the air.  It was not exactly to my taste,
however, nor did the thought of my poor mother at home make me more
sympathetic with Tom's ecstasy; so whilst he chattered I strode
gloomily forward over the beach.

The day was drawing towards noon.  October was revelling in an
after-taste of summer, and smiled in broad glory over beach and sea.
A light breeze bore eastward a few fleecy clouds, and the waves
danced and murmured before its breath.  Their salt scent was in
our nostrils, and the glitter of the sand in our eyes.  Black and
sombre in the clear air, Dead Man's Rock rose in gloomy isolation
from the sea, while the sea-birds swept in glistening circles round
its summit.  But what was that at its base?

Seemingly, a little knot of men stood at the water's edge.  As we
drew nearer I could distinguish their forms but not their occupation,
for they stood in a circle, intent on some object in their midst
concealed from our view.  Presently, however, they fell into a rough
line as though making for the archway to Ready-Money Cove.  Something
they carried among them, and continually stooped over; but what it
was I could not see.  Their pace was very slow, but they turned into
the arch and were disappearing, when I caught sight of the uncouth
little figure of Joe Roscorla among the last, and ran forward,
hailing him by name.

At the sound of my voice Joe started, turned round and made a slow
pause; then, with a few words to his neighbour, came quickly towards
me.  As he drew near, I saw that his face was white and his manner
full of embarrassment; but he put on a smile, and spoke first--

"Why, Jasper, what be doin' along here?"

"I'm going home.  Has Uncle Loveday seen mother? And is she better?"

"Aw iss, he've a seen her an' she be quieter: leastways, he be bound
to do her a power o' good.  But what be goin' back for?  'Tain't no
use botherin' indoors wi' your mother in thicky wisht state.
Run about an' get some play."

"What were you doing down by the Rock just now, Joe?"

Joe hesitated for a while; stammered, and then said, "Nuthin."

"But, Joe, you were doing something: what were you carrying over to
Ready-Money?"

"Look-ee here, my lad, run an' play, an' doan't ax no questions.
'Tain't for little boys to ax questions.  Now I comes to think of it,
Doctor said as you was to stay over to Lizard Town, 'cos there ain't
no need of a passel of boys in a sick house: so run along back."

Joe's voice had a curious break in it, and his whole bearing was so
unaccountable that I did not wonder when Tom quietly said--

"Joe, you're telling lies."

Now Joe was, in an ordinary way, the soul of truth: so I looked for
an explosion.  To my surprise, however, he took no notice of the
insult, but turned again to me--

"Jasper, lad, run along back: do'ee now."

His voice was so full of entreaty that a sudden suspicion took hold
of me.

"Joe, is--has anything happened to mother?"

"Noa, to be sure: she'll be gettin' well fast enough, if so be as you
let her be."

"Then I'll go and see Uncle Loveday, and find out if I am really to
go back."

I made a motion to go, but he caught me quickly by the arm.

"Now, Jasper, doan't-'ee go: run back, I tell'ee--run back--I tell'ee
you _must_ go back."

His words were so earnest and full of command that I turned round and
faced him.  Something in his eyes filled me with sickening fear.

"Joe, what were you carrying?"

No answer.

"Joe, what were you carrying?"

Still no answer; but an appealing motion of the hand.

"Joe, what was it?"

"Go back!" he said, hoarsely.  "Go back!"

"I will not, until I have seen what you were carrying."

"Go back, boy: for God's sake go back!"

I wrenched myself from his grasp, and ran with all speed.  Joe and
Tom followed me, but fear gave me fleetness.  Behind I could hear
Joe's panting voice, crying, "Come back!" but the agony in his tone
set me running faster.  I flew through the archway, and saw the small
procession half-way across the cove.  At my shout they halted,
paused, and one or two advanced as if to stop me.  But I dashed
through their hands into their midst, and saw--God in heaven!
What?  The drowned face of my father!

Tenderly as women they lifted me from the body.  Gently and with
tear-stained faces, they stood around and tried to comfort me.
Reverently, while Joe Roscorla held me in his arms behind, they took
up the corpse of him they had known and loved so well, and carried it
up the cliffs to Lantrig.  As they lifted the latch and bore the body
across the threshold, a yell of maniac laughter echoed through the
house to the very roof.

And this was my father's "Welcome Home!"

Nay, not all; for as Uncle Loveday started to his feet, the door
behind him flew open, and my mother, all in white, with very madness
in her eyes, rushed to the corpse, knelt, caught the dead hand,
kissed and fondled the dead face, cooing and softly laughing the
while with a tender rapture that would have moved hell itself to
pity.

In this manner it was that these two fond lovers met.

CHAPTER VII.

TELLS HOW UNCLE LOVEDAY MADE A DISCOVERY; AND WHAT THE TIN BOX
CONTAINED.

An hour afterwards I was sitting at the bedside of my dying mother.
The shock of that terrible meeting had brought her understanding--and
death: for as her mind returned her life ebbed away.  White and
placid she lay upon her last bed, and spoke no word; but in her eyes
could be read her death-warrant, and by me that which was yet more
full of anguish, a tender but unfading reproach.  This world is full
of misunderstandings, but seldom is met one so desperate.  How could
I tell her now?  And how could she ever understand?  It was all too
late.  "Too late! too late!" the words haunted me there as the bright
sun struggled through the drawn blind and illumined her saintly face.
They and the look in her sweet eyes have haunted me many a day since
then, and would be with me yet, did I not believe she knows the truth
at last.  There are too many ghosts in my memories for Heaven to
lightly add this one more.

She was dying--slowly and peacefully dying, and this was the end of
her waiting.  He had returned at last, this husband for whose coming
she had watched so long.  He had returned at last, after all his
labour, and had been laid at her feet a dead man.  She was free to go
and join her love.  To me, child as I was, this was sorely cruel.
Death, as I know now, is very merciful even when he seems most
merciless, but as I sat and watched the dear life slowly drift away
from me, it was a hard matter to understand.

The pale sunlight came, and flickered, and went; but she lay to all
seeming unchanged.  Her pulse's beat was failing--failing; the broken
heart feebly struggling to its rest; but her sad eyes were still the
same, appealing, questioning, rebuking--all without hope of answer or
explanation.  So were they when the sobbing fishermen lifted her from
the body, so would they be until closed for the last sleep.  It was
very cruel.

My father's body lay in the room below, with Uncle Loveday and Mrs.
Busvargus for watchers.  Now and again my uncle would steal softly
upstairs, and as softly return with hopelessness upon his face.
The clock downstairs gave the only sound I heard, as it marked the
footsteps of the dark angel coming nearer and nearer.  Twice my
mother's lips parted as if to speak; but though I bent down to catch
her words, I could hear no sound.

So, as I sat and watched her waxen face, all the sweet memories of
her came back in a sad, reproachful train.  Once more we sat together
by the widowed hearth, reading: once more we stood upon the rocky
edge of Pedn-glas and looked into the splendours of the summer sunset
"for father's ship:" once more we knelt together in Polkimbra Church,
and prayed for his safe return: once more I heard that sweet, low
voice--once more?  Ah, never, never more!

Uncle Loveday stole into the room on tip-toe, and looked at her; then
turned and asked--

"Has she spoken yet?"

"No."

He was about to leave when the lips parted again, and this time she
spoke--

"He is coming, coming.  Hush! that is his step!"

The dark eyes were ablaze with expectation: the pale cheek aglow with
hope.  I bent down over the bed, for her voice was very low.

"He is coming, I know it.  Listen!  Oh, husband, come quicker,
quicker!"

Alas! poor saint, the step you listen for has gone before, and is
already at the gate of heaven.

"He is here! Oh, husband, husband, you have come for me!"

A moment she sat up with arms outstretched, and glory in her face;
then fell back, and the arms that caught her were the arms of God.

After the first pang of bereavement had spent itself, Uncle Loveday
got me to bed, and there at last I slept.  The very bewilderment of
so much sorrow enforced sleep, and sleep was needed: so that, worn
out with watching and excitement, I had not so much as a dream to
trouble me.  It was ten o'clock in the morning when I awoke, and saw
my uncle sitting beside the bed.  Another sun was bright in the
heavens outside: the whole world looked so calm and happy that my
first impulse was to leap up and run, as was my custom, to mother's
room.  Then my eyes fell on Uncle Loveday, and the whole dreadful
truth came surging into my awakened brain.  I sank back with a low
moan upon the pillow.

Uncle Loveday, who had been watching me, stepped to the bed and took
my hand.

"Jasper, boy, are you better?"

After a short struggle with my grief, I plucked up heart to answer
that I was.

"That's a brave boy.  I asked, because I have yet to tell you
something.  I am a doctor, you know, Jasper, and so you may take my
word when I say there is no good in what is called 'breaking news.'
It is always best to have the pain over and done with; at least,
that's my experience.  Now, my dear boy, though God knows you have
sorrow enough, there is still something to tell: and if you are the
boy I take you for, it is best to let you know at once."

Dimly wondering what new blow fortune could deal me, I sat up in bed
and looked at my uncle helplessly.

"Jasper, you think--do you not--that your father was drowned?"

"Of course, uncle."

"He was not drowned."

"Not drowned!"

"No, Jasper, he was murdered."

The words came slowly and solemnly, and even with the first shock of
surprise the whole truth dawned upon me.  This, then, explained the
effect my name had wrought upon those two strange men.  This was the
reason why, as we sat together upon Dead Man's Rock, the eyes of John
Railton had refused to meet mine: this was the reason why his
murderer had gripped me so viciously upon Ready-Money Beach.
These few words of my uncle's began slowly to piece together the
scattered puzzle of the last two days, so that I half guessed the
answer as I asked--

"Murdered!  How?"

"He was stabbed to death."

I knew it, for I remembered the empty sheath that hung at Rhodojani's
waist, and heard again Railton's words, "Captain, it was your knife."
As certainly as if I had fitted the weapon to its case, I knew that
man had prompted father's murder.  Even as I knew it my terror of him
faded away, and a blind and helpless hate sprang up in its stead:
helpless now, but some day to be masterful and worthy of heed.
That the man who called himself Georgio Rhodojani was guilty of one
death, I knew from the witness of my own eyes: that he had two more
lives upon his black account--for the hand that struck my father had
also slain my mother--I knew as surely.

    "And the devil has got his due, my lads!"

No, not yet: there was still one priceless soul for him to wait for.

"He was stabbed," repeated Uncle Loveday, "stabbed to the heart, and
from behind.  I found this blade as I examined your poor father's
body.  It was broken off close to the hilt, and left in the wound,
which can hardly have bled at all.  Death must have been immediate.
It's a strange business, Jasper, and a strange blade by the look of
it."

I took the blade from his hand.  It was about four inches in length,
sharp, and curiously worked: one side was quite plain, but the other
was covered with intricate tracery, and down the centre, bordered
with delicate fruit and flowers, I spelt out the legend "Ricordati."

"What does that word mean?" I asked, as I handed back the steel.
My voice was so calm and steady that Uncle Loveday glanced at me for
a moment in amazement before he answered--

"It's not Latin, Jasper, but it's like Latin, and I should think must
mean 'Remember,' or something of the sort."

"'Remember,'" I repeated.  "I will, uncle.  As surely as father was
murdered, I will remember--when the time comes."

They were strange words from a boy.  My uncle looked at me again, but
doubtless thinking my brain turned with grief, said nothing.

"Have you told anybody?" I asked at length.

"I have seen nobody.  There will be an inquest, of course, but in
this case an inquest can do nothing.  Murderer and murdered have both
gone to their account.  By the way, I suppose nothing has been seen
of the man who gave evidence.  It was an unlikely tale; and this
makes it the more suspicious.  Bless my soul!" said my uncle,
suddenly, "to think it never struck me before!  Your father was to
sail in the _Belle Fortune_, and this man gave the name of the ship
as the _James and Elizabeth_."

"It was the _Belle Fortune_, and the man told a falsehood."

"I suppose it must have been."

"I know it was."

"Know?  How do you know?"

"Because the _James and Elizabeth_ is lying at this moment in
Falmouth Harbour, and her captain is down at the 'Lugger.'"

Thereupon I told how I had met with Captain Antonius Merrydew.
Nay, more, for my heart ached for confidence, I recounted the whole
story of my meeting with John Railton, and the struggle upon Dead
Man's Rock.  Every word I told, down to the dead man's legacy--the
packet and letter which I hid in the cow-house.  As the tale
proceeded my uncle's eyes grew wider and wider with astonishment.
But I held on calmly and resolutely to the end, nor after the first
shock of wonderment did he doubt my sanity or truthfulness, but grew
more and more gravely interested.

When I had finished my narrative there was a long silence.  Finally
Uncle Loveday spoke--

"It's a remarkable story--a very remarkable story," he said, slowly
and thoughtfully.  "In all my life I have never heard so strange a
tale.  But the man must be caught.  He cannot have gone far, if, as
you say, he was here at Lantrig only the night before last.  I expect
they are on the look-out for him down at Polkimbra since they have
heard the captain's statement; but all the same I will send off Joe
Roscorla, who is below, to make sure.  I must have a pipe, Jasper, to
think this over.  As a general rule I am not a smoker: your aunt does
not--ahem!--exactly like the smell.  But it collects the thoughts,
and this wants thinking over.  Meanwhile, you might dress if you feel
well enough.  Run to the shed and get the packet; we will read it
over together when I have finished my pipe.  It is a remarkable
story," he repeated, as he slowly opened the door, "a most marvellous
story.  I must have a pipe.  A most--remarkable--tale."

With this he went downstairs and left me to dress.

I did so, and ran downstairs to the cow-shed.  No one had been there.
With eager fingers I tore away the bricks from the crumbling mortar,
and drew out my prize.  The buckle glittered in the light that stole
through the gaping door.  All was safe, and as I left it.

Clutching my treasure, I ran back to the house and found Mrs.
Busvargus spreading the midday meal.  Until that was over, I knew
that Uncle Loveday would not attack the mystery.  He was sitting
outside in the front garden smoking solemnly, and the wreaths of his
pipe, curling in through the open door, filled the house with
fragrance.

I crept upstairs to my mother's door, and reverently entered the
dim-lit room.  They had laid the two dead lovers side by side upon
the bed.  Very peacefully they slept the sleep that was their
meeting--peacefully as though no wickedness had marred their lives or
wrought their death.  I could look upon them calmly now.  My father
had left his heritage--a heritage far different from that which he
went forth to win; but I accepted it nevertheless.  Had they known,
in heaven, the full extent of that inheritance, would they not, as I
kissed their dead lips in token of my acceptance, have given some
sign to stay me?  Had I known, as I bent over them, to what the oath
in my heart would bring me, would I even then have renounced it?
I cannot say.  The dead lips were silent, and only the dead know what
will be.

Uncle Loveday was already at table when I descended.  But small was
our pretence of eating.  Mrs. Busvargus, it is true, had lost no
appetite through sorrow; but Mrs. Busvargus was accustomed to such
scenes, and in her calling treated Death with no more to-do than she
would a fresh customer at her husband's inn.  Long attendance at
death-beds seemed to have given that good woman a perennial youth,
and certainly that day she seemed to have lost the years which I had
gained.  Uncle Loveday made some faint display of heartiness; but it
was the most transparent feigning.  He covered his defection by
pressing huge helpings upon me, so that my plate was bidding fair to
become a new Tower of Babel, when Mrs. Busvargus interposed and swept
the meal away; after which she disappeared into the back kitchen to
"wash up," and was no more seen; but we heard loud splashings at
intervals as if she had found a fountain, and were renewing her youth
in it.

Left to ourselves, we sat silent for a while, during which Uncle
Loveday refilled and lit his pipe and plunged again into thought,
with his eyes fixed on the rafters.  Whether because his cogitations
led to something, or the tobacco had soothed him sufficiently, he
finally turned to me and asked--

"Have you got that packet?"

I produced it.  He took his big red handkerchief from his pocket,
spread it on the table, and began slowly to undo the strap.
Then after arranging apart the buckle, the letter, and the tin box,
he inquired--

"Was it like this when the man gave it to you?"

"No, the letter was separate.  I slipped it under the strap to keep
it safe."

"It seems to me," said my uncle, adjusting his spectacles and
unfolding the paper, "illegible, or almost so.  It has evidently been
thoroughly soaked with salt water.  Come here and see if your young
eyes can help me to decipher it."

We bent together over the blurred handwriting.  The letter was
evidently in a feminine hand; but the characters were rudely and
inartistically formed, while every here and there a heavy down-stroke
or flourish marred the beauty of the page.  Wherever such thick lines
occurred the ink had run and formed an illegible smear.  Such as it
was, with great difficulty, and after frequent trials, we spelt out
the letter as follows:--

                    "The Welc . . . Home, Barbican, Plymo."
    "My Deerest Jack,--This to hope it will find You quite well, as
     it leaves Me at present.  Also to say that I hope this voyage
      . . . _new Leaf_ with Simon as Companny, who is a _Good
     Friend_, though, as you well know, I did not think . . . came
     _courting me_.  But it is for the best, and . . . liquor . . .
     which I pray to Heaven may begin happier Days.  Trade is very
     poor, and I do not know . . . little Jenny, who is getting on
     _Famously_ with her Schooling.  She keaps the Books already,
     which is a great saving . . . looks in often and sits in the
     parlour.  He says as you have Done Well to be . . . _Wave_, but
     misdoubts Simon, which I tell him must be wrong, for it was him
     that advised . . . the fuss and warned against liquor, which he
     never took Himself.  Jenny is so Fond of her Books, and says she
     will _teech you to write_ when you come home, which will be a
     great _Comfort_, you being away so long and never a word.  And I
     am doing wonders under her teaching, which I dare say she will
     let you know of it all in the letter she is writing to go along
     with this . . . Simon to write for you, who is a . . . scholar,
     which is natural . . . in the office.  So that I wonder he left
     it, having no taste for the sea that ever I heard . . . be the
     making of you both.  I forgot to tell . . . very strange when he
     left, but what with the hurry and bussle it _slipped my mind_
     . . . wonderful to me to think of, my talking to you so natural
     . . . distance.  And so no more at present from your loving
     wife,"
              "LUCY RAILTON."

    "Jenny says . . . will not alter, being more like as if it came
     from me.  Munny is very scarce.  I wish you could get . . ."

This was all, and small enough, as I thought, was the light it threw
on the problem before us.  Uncle Loveday read it over three or four
times; then folded up the letter and looked at me over his
spectacles.

"You say this cut-throat fellow--this Rhodojani, as he called
himself--spoke English?"

"As well as we do.  He and the other spoke English all the time."

"H'm!  And he talked about a Jenny, did he?"

"He was saying something about 'Jenny not finding a husband' when
John Railton struck him."

"Then it's clear as daylight that he's called Simon, and not Georgio.
Also if I ever bet (though far be it from me) I would bet my buttons
that his name is no more Rhodojani than mine is Methuselah."

He paused for a moment, absorbed in thought; then resumed--

"This Lucy Railton is John Railton's wife and keeps a public-house
called the 'Welcome Home!' on the Barbican, Plymouth.  Simon, that is
to say Rhodojani, was in love with Lucy Railton, and his conduct,
says she, was strange before leaving; but he pretended to be John
Railton's friend, and, from what you say, must have had an
astonishing influence over the unhappy man.  Simon, we learn, is a
scholar," pursued my uncle, after again consulting the letter, "and I
see the word 'office' here, which makes it likely that he was a clerk
of some kind, who took to the sea for some purpose of his own, and
induced Railton to go with him, perhaps for the same purpose, perhaps
for another.  Anyhow, it seems it was high time for Railton to go
somewhere, for besides the references to liquor, which tally with
Simon's words upon Dead Man's Rock, we also meet with the ominous
words 'the fuss,' wherein, Jasper, I find the definite article not
without meaning."

Uncle Loveday was beaming with conscious pride in his own powers of
penetration.  He acknowledged my admiring attention with a modest
wave of the hand, and then proceeded to clear his throat
ostentatiously, as one about to play a trump card.

"As I say, Jasper, this fellow must have had some purpose to drag him
off to sea from an office stool--some strong purpose, and, from what
we know of the man, some ungodly purpose.  Now, the question is, What
was it?  On the Rock, as you say, he charged John Railton with having
a certain Will in his possession.  Your father started from England
with a Will in his possession.  This is curious, to say the
least--very curious; but I do not see how we are to connect this with
the man Simon's sudden taste for the sea, for, you know, he could not
possibly have heard of Amos Trenoweth's Will."

"You and aunt were the only people father told of it."

"Quite so; and your father (excuse me, Jasper) not being a born fool,
naturally didn't cry his purpose about the streets of Plymouth when