Chapter LI · NKS (continued 3)

Ezekiel was the bravest of them. He tried to encourage them to talk and laugh,—talking and laughing loudly himself all the time, but all was unnatural. His apologies for his strange visitor were numerous. He was an old friend who liked to come to him and see new faces and young life, but was too old to do more than look on. He was deaf and dumb, that was why his conduct was so strange. Sometimes the little old man sat unmoved while these stories were told, at other times, though, he would spring up, and with a burst of mocking laughter would disappear no one knew how.

By and by, of course, Ezekiel Grosse's friends began to leave him. They declined his invitations, and omitted to include him in theirs, so that in a comparatively short time he had not a single friend remaining of all those he had spent so much upon.

Disappointed and miserable, he soon became the wreck of his old self. Alone in his luxurious house now, save for his old clerk John Cull, he could never be said to be quite alone, either, for wherever he went, or whatever he did, the spectre haunted him persistently. Under this persecution the attorney became a brokendown, miserable man, with every feature stamped with terror. For a long time he bore with the merciless ghost without complaining, but at last he came to an end of his endurance. In heart-rending terms, with tears and piteous pleading, he begged the old man to go away and leave him. He had been punished sufficiently, he said. But his prayers were poured into deaf ears. The spectre absolutely refused to go, and for some time stuck to his word. Then, at last he consented, on one condition, and that was that Ezekiel should give up all his wealth to someone the spectre should name.

"Who am I to give it to?" gasped Ezekiel humbly.

"To John Cull, the man you have overworked and underpaid for years. John Cull, your clerk and dependent."

Ezekiel Grosse had been given wealth, happiness, friends, only to be deprived of all, to be lowered in the eyes of all men, with not one to pity him. This was the punishment designed by the frightful spectre, who was no more nor less than an ancestor of the family Ezekiel Grosse had robbed, the Rosewarnes. He had planned to punish the lawyer by whose wickedness his family had been robbed and made homeless, and he carried through his plan.

Poor Ezekiel Grosse did not live long in his disappointment and shame. He was found dead one day, with strange marks upon him, and people who saw it say that when he died the weird little spectre stood beside him with a pleased smile on his face. As soon as it was dark, he disappeared, and the story goes that he took Ezekiel's body with him, for from that day to this it has never been seen.

THE STORY OF THE LOVERS' COVE.

This is a sad story,—at least, some will think it sad! It is not about fairies, or giants, or witches, but about two lovers who loved each other above and beyond everything else in the world;—which is uncommon, for most people love themselves in that way first, and someone else next.

These two lovers loved each other passionately and devotedly. They used to meet in the Lovers' Cove, or Porthangwartha,—which means the same,— and many a happy meeting they had, and well did everything go until they told their friends. After that there was such a talk and such a stir, and such hardness and misery, that the lovers never again knew what it was to be happy. The parents said that they should not love each other,—which was foolish, for they could not prevent it; that they should never meet and never marry, which was cruel, for this they could prevent, and did. So the poor lovers led a life of utter wretchedness, for they were persecuted sadly, and were breaking their hearts for each other.

At last their persecutors ended by driving the young man away. He determined to go to the West Indies. Then the relations congratulated themselves heartily that they had got their own way, and parted the lovers for ever.

In spite of all their precautions, though, those two poor heart-broken lovers managed to meet once more; and as it was to be their very last sight of each other for they did not know how long, perhaps for ever, it was a very, very sad parting indeed.

It was in the Lovers' Cove that they met, and there, under the frosty light of the moon, they bade each other their sad good-byes, and while they clung to each other for the last time, they made a solemn vow that, living or dead, they would meet again in that same place at that same hour of the same day three years hence.

So the young man sailed away, and the girl lived with her parents, going about her duties quietly and patiently, and, in spite of her sadness, with a look of hope in her eyes that increased and increased as the weeks and months slipped by. Her parents noticed it, and told themselves that she had forgotten the banished lover, and would soon learn to care for one of those they approved of. When, though, she had refused to listen to any of the others who came wooing her, they began to fear that they were mistaken, and were puzzled to know what it was that was driving the wistfulness from her face, and the languor from her step.

So the long years dragged to a close, and at last, as it was bound to do, the end of the three years drew very near, and with each day the girl's step grew lighter and more buoyant, her eyes glistened and her lips curved in a smile that was new to them. Now and then even a snatch of song burst from them. Her parents had no doubt now that she had quite forgotten the lover whose name had not been mentioned in her presence since the day he sailed.

Then, at last, the three years were really past and gone, the last day dawned and wore away to evening, and then night fell, moonlit, still, beautiful, a fitting night for lovers who were to meet once more, whether living or dead. In the Cove it was as light as day, one could count each wave as it rose and fell, and see distinctly the white foam at its edge as it broke on the beach. The sands gleamed like silver in the sad white light save where the rocks threw dark shadows.

All round the coast the witches and wizards were busy manufacturing their spells. High up on a cliff overlooking the Lovers' Cove an old woman,— not a witch,—was sitting preparing her herbs and simples,—which must always be done by moonlight,—when suddenly she was startled to see down in the Cove below her the figure of the maiden swiftly crossing the sands. The old dame, who recognized the girl, was startled for it was nearly twelve o'clock, and in that part most people are in bed by nine.

Swiftly and unhesitatingly the girl made her way to a rock far out on the sands, and close to the water. Up the rock she climbed, and sat herself down as though it had been noon on a fine summer's day. Did not she know, wondered the old woman nervously, that the tide was rapidly rising, and the rock being fast surrounded? Apparently, though, the maiden did not know, or care, for there she sat immovable, her face turned towards the sea, gazing at it with bright intent eyes, as though searching its face for something.

At last the old woman grew so alarmed she could endure the suspense no longer. The girl's danger increased every moment, and she felt it her duty to go and warn her, and give her what help she could. So with trembling limbs and fast-beating heart she hurried as fast as she was able down the side of the cliff. The path, though, was rough and winding, and she was old. At one point the end of the beach where the girl sat was cut off from her view. It was only for a moment, certainly, yet when the old dame caught sight of her again, she saw, to her amazement, that a fine young sailor had also mounted the rock, and was seated close beside her!

He too, sailor though he was, seemed quite unconscious of their danger. They sat there on the water-surrounded rock, he with arm around the girl, she with her head on his breast, oblivious of everything but each other.

"Oh ho! my young woman!" said the old dame to herself, "so this is how you pass your time while your lover is away! and after the way you pretended to love him, too!" She felt quite cross, for she was very tired and very frightened and in no mood to smile at lovers' foolishness. She sat herself down on a rock by the path they would have to ascend, determined to await their return, partly to give the maiden a good sound scolding for her reckless behaviour, and partly to satisfy her curiosity by seeing who the young man was who had won her heart away from the absent lover.

The lovers, though, appeared in no hurry to move. There they sat clinging together, with the moon shining down coldly on them, and the water gleaming around them. The wind had died away until there seemed to be scarcely a breath of air stirring, and the sea lay as calm as a lake. The whole scene resembled Fairyland, with the lovers as two spirits watching over the Cove. The tide rose higher and higher, and the only sound to be heard in that lone, desolate spot was the lazy plash of the waves on the shore, and around the cliffs.

In a short time the water rose so high that the rock was almost covered; to get off it now the lovers would have to swim; yet still they paid no heed. They seemed lost to everything but each other.

It was all so ghostly and uncanny that the poor old woman grew wild with nervousness and excitement. She called and called to them at the top of her voice, but she failed to make it reach them. The plash of the waves and the sighing of the gently heaving sea seemed to swallow it up. And when at last a wave came up and washed right over them, she shrieked aloud, distracted by her own helplessness, and covered her eyes with her apron. She could not bear to look and watch them being drowned.

With her face hidden she waited, breathless, for their shrieks for help,— but none came. She uncovered her eyes and looked at the rock,—it was bare, save for the water which now covered it. She gazed frantically around, first at the beach, then out to sea; the beach was empty, save for herself, but out on the sea were the two lovers, floating out on the scarcely moving waters, hand in hand, gazing into each other's eyes, smiling happily and without sign of struggle. Further and further away they drifted. Then across the still waters came the sound of sweet low voices singing, and in the stillness which hung over everything the very words sounded distinctly:—

I am thine, Thou art mine, Beyond control; In the wave Be the grave Of heart and soul.

Slowly, slowly they passed out through the moonlit sea, sweetly chanting their pathetic song; until at last they turned and faced the shore; and in that moment the old woman recognized in the sailor the lonely maiden's lover, who had been driven away by her parents so long before.

One long look they took at the Lovers' Cove and the black rock on which they had met, then turned their happy faces to each other, their lips meeting in one long, long kiss, and while their lips were meeting they sank quickly beneath the waves.

A few days later the maiden's body was found not far from the Lovers' Cove; and some time after news reached the village that on the very night that she had been seen with him on the rock he had been killed in a foreign land.

THE SILVER TABLE.

Off Cudden Point, in the parish of Perranuthnoe, there lies buried in the sea, treasure enough to make anyone who finds it, one of the wealthiest persons in the whole county.

Now and then, during the spring-tides, when the water is very low, small portions of it are found, just enough to keep up the excitement, and cause dozens of children from all the neighbourhood round to gather there in a swarm, to search among the seaweeds, and dig in the sands, and venture out in the sea itself as far as they dare. It is only about once in a blue moon that they do come upon treasure, but there is always the hope that any hour or day may bring them a big find.

Jewellery and coins, and silver goblets, are some of the treasures they seek, but the greatest of all is no less a thing than a table, a large and massive table, too, made of solid silver.

I am sure you would like to know why they expect such a prize, so I will tell you.

Many, many years ago there lived in those parts a very wealthy man. He was also a very wicked one, indeed it was said that he was no other than the Lord of Pengerswick, of whom you will have read in another of these stories. It was rather difficult to say for certain, for the wicked old man being an enchanter could go about in all kinds of disguises, so that only those who had the gift of 'second sight' could discover him.

Anyhow, if this rich, bad man was not the Lord of Pengerswick he was someone just as wicked, and just as rich. I believe, though, it was that old enchanter, and, at any rate, we will call him so for the time.

The old gentleman had plenty of money and he spent it freely too, for it cost him no trouble to get. He ground it out of the poor, and in the most cruel manner. As he got it so easily he did not mind wasting it, and he kept 'open house' as they call it,—that is, he always had a houseful of visitors, men and women who were nearly as bad as he was, and he provided them with every kind of luxury, and pleasure, and amusement that he could think of. They rode pell-mell over the country on fiery, unmanageable horses, breaking down the farmers' hedges, trampling down the land, hunting, shooting, dancing and gambling! They did anything and everything that was wild, and foolish, and exciting, in order to make the days pass pleasantly.

One very, very hot summer's day, though, when the sun was pouring down pitilessly, scorching up everything, and there was scarcely a breath of air to be found, and it was too hot to dance, or to ride, or do anything tiring, this gay crew thought they would like to spend some hours on the sea, where it was cooler than on the land.

So the Lord of Pengerswick, always glad to show off his possessions, ordered his largest and most sumptuous barge to be set afloat, and stored with every kind of luxury, and every sort of dainty thing he could think of, and the gay party went on board. Seated on silken cushions under an awning of cloth of gold, they began at once to feast on the marvellous dainties spread for them on a large solid silver table, and all the time they feasted and laughed and jested, delicate music and singing wafted towards them from the far end of the boat, to charm their ears if they cared to listen.

While, though, the awning sheltered them from the sun, it also concealed from them a little cloud which presently appeared in the sky; and the music, talk and laughter drowned the sound of a little breeze that sighed round the vessel.

The little breeze sighed, and went away unnoticed, but presently returned, not little now, but very big, and determined to be heard; but they were, by this time, making such a noise on board, that even the louder breeze went unheeded, until, grown quite angry, in a gust of fury it struck the boat—and what happened next no one knows, for none were left to tell the tale,—except the breeze, and he went scuffling off to another point.

This only is known, that where the barge had floated nothing was to be seen but a desolate expanse of water, but for years and years afterwards, when the wind was in the right direction, the fishermen heard sounds of laughter and talking coming up from the bottom of the sea, the rattle of plates and the jingle of glasses, and through it all the strains of sweet music, and deep voices singing. If the moon was in the right quarter and the water very still, far down beneath the waves could be seen the gleaming silver table, and the wicked old Lord of Pengerswick and his guests still seated round it keeping up their revels.

The feasting must all have ceased by this time, though, for no sound is ever heard now, and it is long since anyone has caught sight of the pleasure-loving crew. A part of the treasure has been cast up by the sea, and seized by the descendants of the poor people the old lord robbed, and it seems quite possible that if they only wait long enough, and the tide goes out far enough, someone will be so fortunate as to find the silver table.

CRUEL COPPINGER, THE DANE.

One of the most terrific storms ever known was raging on the north coast of Cornwall. The gale, blowing up channel from the southwest, broke with such fury on that bold, unsheltered piece of coast by Morwenstow, that the wreckers, who were gathered on the shore and heights above, had more than enough to do to keep their feet. The rain came down in driving sheets, shutting off the sea from their eager eyes, so that they could see nothing of the prey they were watching for.

Beaten down, drenched, well-nigh frozen, even these hardy men were on the point of giving way before the fury of the hurricane, when suddenly from out the sheets of driving rain loomed a vessel, a foreigner. If she had been a phantom ship, as at first they thought she must be, she could not have appeared more strangely, suddenly, or unexpectedly. But it was no phantom battling so bravely, yet so hopelessly with the fierce waves, ploughing her way through them, defying their efforts to draw her down and devour her. She rolled and lurched heavily, and was driven closer and closer on to the jagged rocks of that cruel coast; her sails were in rags, and she herself was utterly beyond control.

As she drew nearer, the terror-stricken faces of those on board could be plainly seen, clinging to each other or to the masts, praying, gesticulating, or too frightened to do anything but gaze with fixed and ghastly eyes at the awful fate awaiting them.

Standing near the wheel was a man who, even at such a time, seemed to hold himself apart from the rest. He was of gigantic size, towering above the heads of the rest of them. He had stripped himself of his clothing, and was evidently awaiting a suitable moment to plunge off the vessel into the boiling ocean, and fight his hand-to-hand battle with death. At last the right moment came. Without an instant's hesitation he plunged over the side into the raging waters. Then rising again, in a moment or two, to the surface, like a perfect Hercules, he fought his way through the billows, his strong arm and massive chest defying their power. On, on he went, now riding on the top of a huge boiling mountain of water, now down in the hollow, with the raging sea rising above him, so that it seemed he must be swallowed and crushed in their embrace.

Long the struggle continued, and the excitement on shore grew intense, for no one thought it possible that he could reach the land alive. But, after a terrible fight which would have exhausted anyone not endowed with supernatural powers, his bravery was rewarded, and with one tremendous leap he landed safely on the shore, well beyond the deadly clutch of the waves.

All the people of the country-side seemed now to have gathered to witness the marvellous combat, men and women, on horse and on foot, wreckers, fishermen, and what not,—and into the midst of them all rushed the dripping stranger. Apparently not in the least exhausted, he snatched the scarlet cloak off the shoulders of an old woman, and wrapping it about himself, as suddenly sprang up behind a young woman, who was sitting on her horse watching the wreck, and urging the animal on to a furious gallop, rode off in the direction of the young woman's home. The people shouted and screamed, for they thought the poor girl was being carried off, no one knew where, by the Evil One himself; but the strange cries, which they took to be the language of the Lower Regions, were only a foreign tongue, and the horse made for its own stable by instinct.

When Miss Dinah Hamlyn and her reeking steed dashed into the courtyard of her own home, closely clasped by a tall wicked-looking man wrapped in a scarlet cloak, the outcry was doubled. There was nothing to be done, though, but to give the stranger a suit of Mr. Hamlyn's clothes, and some food, and very comely he looked in the long coat, the handsome waistcoat, knee-breeches, and buckled shoes.

He accepted the clothes, and the food, and indeed all their attention, as a matter of course, and having informed them that his name was Coppinger, and that he was a Dane, he seemed to think he had done all that was required of him, and settled down in the family circle as though he were one of them, and as welcome as though he were an old family friend.

Of the distressed vessel, and the rest of the shipwrecked crew, nothing more was seen from the moment the big man left her. How or where she disappeared no one knew, all eyes had been fixed on the struggling swimmer from the moment he leapt into the sea; and when they had looked again the ship had gone, and no trace or sign of her or her crew was ever found on that coast, or on any other.

At first Coppinger made himself most agreeable to the people he had appeared amongst, he was pleasant and kind beyond anything you can imagine. Miss Dinah Hamlyn thought him a very attractive man, indeed, and not only forgave him for his first treatment of her, but thought it something to be proud of. Old Mr. Hamlyn liked the man, too, and was as kind to him as could be, giving him the best he had, and even at last consenting to his marriage with Miss Dinah herself, though against his own feelings.

Coppinger had given out that he was a Dane of noble birth and great wealth, who had run away to escape marrying a lady he disliked. Old Farmer Hamlyn did not like his daughter to marry a 'furriner,' and he considered that people should marry in their own stations; but Dinah herself loved the man all the better for what he had told them, and between them they soon overcame the father's scruples, and the wedding-day was fixed.

The wedding-day had to be postponed, though, for Farmer Hamlyn fell ill, grew rapidly worse, and in a very short time was dead and buried. As soon as this was over a great change came over things. Master Coppinger began to show himself in his true character, and a very black character indeed his was! So black and so bad that for generations his mere name was a terror to the people who lived in that part of the world, and is detested to this day.

As soon as poor Farmer Hamlyn had passed away, Coppinger made himself master and controller of the house and all in it, even to the smallest domestic affairs. Dinah he persuaded to marry him at once, and hardly had she done so, when all the evil in his character made itself known, and as though to make up for having so long suppressed his wicked passions, he utterly threw off all appearance of goodness or respectability, and poor respectable Farmer Hamlyn's quiet, happy home became a den of thieves and vagabonds, and a meeting-place for all the lawless characters in the county.

Then it very soon came out that the whole country-side was infested with a body of smugglers, wreckers, poachers, robbers, and murderers, over all of whom 'Cruel Coppinger,' as he came to be called by the honest people in the neighbourhood, was captain and ringleader.

He and his gang worked their own wicked will, and the poor inhabitants of the place were completely in their power, for there were no magistrates, or rich men of power in that part, and no revenue officer dared show himself. The clergyman was scared into silence, and Coppinger and his band ruled the country-side.

Very soon a regular system of smuggling was carried on. All sorts of strange vessels appeared on that part of the coast, and were guided by signals to a safe creek or cove, where they were unloaded, and the valuable, illegal spoil brought in and hidden in the huge caves, which no one but Coppinger and his crew dared to enter, for it would have meant torture and death.

By and by one particular vessel, the 'Black Prince,' Coppinger's own, which he had had built for him in Denmark, became a perfect terror to all the other vessels in the parts she frequented. Coppinger and his crew sailed the seas as though they belonged to them, robbing, murdering, and doing every evil thing they could think of.

If a vessel chased them, they led her into such dangerous parts of the coast that her whole crew invariably perished, while the 'Black Prince' glided out by some intricate passage, and got safely off. If one of the poor landsmen offended any of the gang, away he was dragged to Coppinger's vessel, and there made to serve until he was ransomed, and as the people were almost reduced to beggary by the rogues, there was very little chance of the poor fellow's ever being free again.

Wealth poured into their clutches, and Coppinger soon began to have enormous quantities of gold, which he spent lavishly. Amongst other things he bought a farm, which bordered on the sea, but the lawyer to whom he was to pay the money was taken aback at receiving it in coins from pretty nearly every country in the world, doubloons, ducats, dollars, pistoles! At first he refused to accept them, but a look from Coppinger, and a threat, made him change his mind. He accepted the coins without another word, and handed over the papers.

Of course, when Coppinger realized his power, and saw how everyone feared him, he grew more and more daring. He closed up bridle-paths, to which he had no possible right, and made new ones, where he had no right to make them, and forbade anyone but his own friends to use them after a certain hour in the evening, and no one dared disobey him. Their roads were called 'Coppinger's Tracks,' and all met at a headland called 'Steeple Brink,' a huge hollow cliff which ran three hundred feet sheer up from the beach, while the vast, roomy cave beneath it ran right back into the land. Folks said it was as large as Kilkhampton Church, and they were not far wrong.

This was called 'Coppinger's Cave,' and here took place such scenes of wickedness and cruelty as no one can imagine in these days. Here all the stores were kept, wines, spirits, animals, silks, gold, tea, and everything of value that they could lay hands on. No one but the crew ever dared to show themselves there, for it was more than their lives were worth, the crew being bound by a terrible oath to help their captain in any wickedness he might choose to perpetrate. So it came to pass that all, whether of his band or not, gave in to him, and were ruled by him as though they were slaves and he their lord.

His own house, too, was full of misery and noisy, disgraceful scenes. When John Hamlyn died, Coppinger had obtained possession somehow of everything belonging to him, with the exception of a large sum of money which went to the widow. Coppinger meant to have this money too, though, so he began by getting small sums from his mother-in-law from time to time, until she at last refused to give him any more, and even his threats and coaxings failed to move her.

Cruel Coppinger was not a man to be baulked in any way, so he soon hit upon a plan. Taking his wife to her room, he tied her to the post of the great bedstead, then calling in her mother he told her that he was going to flog Dinah with the cat-o'-nine-tails which he held in his hand, until she handed over to him the money he had asked her for. They knew quite well that he would be as good as his word, and that refusal meant death by torture to Dinah; so the poor mother was compelled to give in, and finding that this plan answered his purpose so well, he repeated the performance until he had had nearly every penny poor old Mrs. Hamlyn was possessed of.

Amongst the numerous animals he owned, there was one favourite mare, —a vicious, uncontrollable creature,—on which he used to scour the country at a terrible pace, spreading terror wherever he went. He never cared in the least how many people or animals he knocked over and trampled to death; the more weak and helpless they were the more he seemed to love to hurt them.

One evening, after spending a few festive hours at a neighbour's house, he was just on the point of departing when he happened to notice seated by the hearth a poor little half-witted tailor, who always went by the name of 'Uncle Tom.'

Uncle Tom was a very quiet, extremely nervous little man, well-known and pitied by all. He went from house to house all over the countryside, doing a day's work at one house, and half a day's at another, and in most houses he was given a meal in addition to his trifling pay, for everyone liked him, he was always willing and obliging, and had never harmed anyone in his life.

"Hulloa, Uncle Tom!" cried Coppinger boisterously, going up and laying a heavy hand on the thin, shaking shoulder of the little tailor. "We are both bound for the same direction. Come along with me, I'll give you a lift on my mare."

The old man shrank away nervously, mumbling all sorts of excuses, for he above all people lived in deadly terror of Cruel Coppinger, also of his vicious mare, and the idea of being at the mercy of them both nearly scared away what few wits he had.

The sight of his terror, though, only made Coppinger more determined to frighten him. He loved to torment so helpless a victim, and the other people present, partly from love of mischief, but chiefly to please Coppinger, egged the tormentor on.

In spite of his struggles and entreaties they hoisted the poor little tailor on to the back of the prancing, restive beast, and held him there while Coppinger sprang up.

No sooner were they both mounted than up reared the mare, danced round on her hind legs a time or two, and then sprang away along the road at a rate which it made one gasp to witness. Tom clung in sheer terror to his big tormentor, afraid of falling off, yet afraid to stay on. Coppinger, guessing perhaps that the little man in his terror might spring off, undid his belt, and passed it round the little tailor's body, buckling it securely around them both. Then, having fastened his victim to him, beyond all hope of escape, he urged the mare on to a more furious pace than ever. They tore through the air at lightning speed. Tom shrieked and prayed to be put down,—to be told whither he was to be taken,—what Coppinger meant to do with him; and pleaded to be killed at once, rather than tortured. They dashed on past his own little cottage, and his wife at the door, catching sight of the pair, nearly fainted to see her poor husband in the grasp of the tyrant. On they went and on, without sign of stopping. They leapt ditches and hedges, animals, waggons, people, anything that came in their way, until, coming at last to a steep hill, they slackened their pace a little, and Coppinger condescended to speak.

"I promised the Devil I would bring him a tailor," he said, "for his clothes sadly need mending, and I am going to carry you to him to-night. It will not be very hard work, and he won't harm you as long as you do what he bids you."

So terrified was poor little Uncle Tom on hearing this awful fate, that he had a fit then and there from fright, and the violence of his struggles was such that the belt gave way, and he was flung from the racing mare, right into the ditch by the roadside.

There he lay all night, and there he was found in the morning, not only battered and bruised and half frozen, but with his poor weak mind quite gone.

"He would never sew for the Devil," he kept repeating over and over and over again, "he would never sew for the Devil, nor for Coppinger either. He believed Coppinger was the Devil, and he might do his work himself, Uncle Tom would never work for such as he!"

Never again did poor Uncle Tom get back his reason, or do another stroke of work to support himself and his wife,—but Coppinger had had his joke, and thought it a very fine one.

Countless were the cruel pranks he played on the poor, the helpless, and defenceless, until at last people became afraid to go outside their houses, and were afraid to stay in them, for every day brought some new wickedness done by him, and every fresh one was worse than the last.

Coppinger had one child, a boy; he was deaf and dumb, and as uncanny a child as his father was a man. He was a beautiful boy to look at, with soft fair skin and golden hair, but he had his father's cruel eyes, and his father's cruel nature. From his babyhood his mischievousness and wickedness knew no bounds; any bird, or animal, or even child that came within his reach he would torment almost to death, and the more his victim writhed and screamed, the greater was his delight.

When he was but six he was found one day on the headland, dancing in frantic joy, and pointing with gestures of delight to the beach below. Hurrying down they found the mangled and bleeding corpse of a little child, his companion, whom he had enticed to the edge of the cliff, and, by an unexpected push, sent headlong on to the rocks beneath. From that day he was always to be found on the tragic spot, and when a stranger passed he would make unearthly sounds of delight, and pointing down to the beach, dance and throw himself about in ecstasy.

All this time Coppinger and his gang grew more and more reckless and daring, until they were the scourge of the country-side. To what lengths they might have gone, no earthly powers can tell, but money became scarce, and times grew bad for them. Armed King's cutters came, not singly, but in great numbers, and tidings of danger were brought to Cruel Coppinger by strangely dressed foreigners.

And so, at last, things came to a climax, and deliverance was at hand for the poor suffering people.

Just such another time as preceded Coppinger's arrival, burst again on that coast; the rain and hail came down in sheets, the gale blew furiously all day. At sunset a vessel appeared off the coast—full-rigged.

Presently a rocket went up from the Gull Rock,—a little rock island with a creek on the landside, a spot where many smugglings had taken place. A gun answered from the ship, again both signals were sent up. Then, on the topmost peak of the rock, appeared the huge form of Coppinger. He waved his sword, and a boat immediately put off from the ship, with two men at each oar, for the tide is terribly strong just there. They neared the rock, rode boldly through the surf, and were steered into the Gull Creek by someone who evidently knew the coast well.

Then Coppinger, who was standing impatiently awaiting them, leapt on board and took the command.

Their efforts to get back to the vessel were enormous. Like giants they laboured at their oars to force a path through the boiling, seething waters. Once, as they drew off-shore, one of the rowers, either from loss of strength or of courage, relaxed his hold for a moment; in an instant a cutlass waved above his head, and one swift cruel stroke cut him down. It was the last brutal deed that Cruel Coppinger was ever seen to do.

He and his men reached the ship and got on board. What happened afterwards no one knows, for at the same moment she disappeared like some ghostly, phantom ship, nobody knows where or how.

Then, in even more fearful violence than before, the storm raged and beat on that coast. Hail, thunder, lightning, hurricanes of wind blinded, deafened, or killed all who were exposed to it.

Round Coppinger's home it expended the very utmost of its fury; trees were torn up by the roots, the thatch was blown off the outhouses, chimneys fell, windows were blown in, and, as Dinah, terrified by the uproar and destruction racing round her, stood holding her uncanny child in her arms, through the roof and ceiling came crashing a monstrous thunderbolt, surrounded by flames, and fell hissing at the very foot of Cruel Coppinger's chair.

MADGE FIGGY, THE WRECKER.

Those of you who know Land's End, and that part of it called Tol-pedn-penwith, cannot fail to have been struck by a huge cliff there, in shape like a ladder, or flight of steps, formed of massive blocks of granite, piled one upon another, and on the top of which there is perched what looks like, and is, a monstrous granite chair.

'Madge Figgy's Chair' is its name, for in it Madge Figgy, who was a wrecker by trade, used to sit and call up the storms, and here, while the rough, cruel Atlantic boiled and lashed in impotent fury over the face of the ladder, Madge sat cool and unconcerned, keeping a sharp look out for any vessels coming in on that terrible coast.

As well as being a wrecker, Madge Figgy was one of the most cruel and wicked witches in the county; and hour after hour she would sit in her chair plotting mischief, or hurling curses at any unfortunate person or thing who had happened to offend her. The poor country-folk were afraid of their very lives of her, and whatever wicked things she told them to do, they had to do them, for they knew her power and lived in terror of offending her.

Amongst the witches she was the leader in all their frolics and revels and wickedness. Getting astride her broomstick she would fly right away across the sea to some foreign land, a band of her friends and cronies after her, and right well did they enjoy themselves,—which was more than anyone else did who came across them while on their wicked revels.

Madge Figgy's home was in a little cottage in a cove not far from her ladder and chair, and this cove was a nest of a gang of the worst wreckers in Cornwall, gathered together by old Madge to help her in her cruel work. No one can count how many noble vessels they lured on to the rocks of that dangerous coast, how many bodies they stripped and cast back into the sea again; while as for the treasure they had divided amongst themselves!— they had quite enough to live on for the rest of their lives, even if they never did another stroke of mischief. That, though, was not what they cared about. They loved wrecking and robbing, and all their evil ways, and would have been quite miserable if they had had to live quiet, respectable stay-at-home lives.

Where all were so wicked there were none to shame them into being any better, and they flaunted their stolen riches as shamelessly as though they had come by everything honestly. It was quite a common sight to see the great, clumsy country-women and girls going about their work dressed in costly silks and velvets, all of the richest character and most beautiful colouring, digging and ploughing, cooking and scrubbing with valuable jewellery on their great arms and their coarse red hands, sparkling gems in their ears, and very likely a tiara that would have made a queen envious, fastened round their untidy, unbrushed hair.

Of all the crew, though, Madge and her husband were the very worst. Most of them did abide by the old saying, 'Honour amongst wreckers,' but not those two. If they could cheat or trick even their friends they would do so; and did, too, very often.

One particularly stormy day, Madge Figgy sat in her great chair in high glee. A tempest such as was seldom known, even on that coast, was raging round her, and close on to the rocks below her was drifting a Portuguese Indiaman which she had lured in to be dashed to fragments on the terrible rocks by the boiling, maddened breakers which towered up like mountains, then broke and fell with all their force on the helpless vessel.

Madge Figgy kicked her heels and clapped her hands with joy as she watched, for the huge vessel laden with valuables of the costliest kind was a prize such as they did not often get, and Madge in her mind was already reckoning up her gains. Far better for the Indiaman had she dropped her treasure overboard and sent it to the bottom of the sea, where she would be ere long; for Madge could tell at any distance what a ship's cargo was worth, and if it was a small one she let the vessel sail on in peace.

Up aloft was the old witch dancing and singing, and down below struggled the perishing crew, captain, sailors, passengers, men, women and children, shrieking aloud for help, but seeing never a living creature coming to give them a hand. Their cries might have melted hearts of iron, but not the hearts of those who were hiding behind the rocks watching with greedy interest for the moment when they might go down and seize their prey. One by one the cries ceased as the sea swallowed up the poor struggling creatures, then presently the vessel broke up, and in on the waves came floating cases, casks, chests, broken spars, mingled with the dead bodies of men and women and little babies.

As fast as they appeared they were seized on, and quickly stripped of everything that was of value, the ladies were robbed of their jewels and dresses, and even of their long hair, and even the babies were robbed of the necklaces which still hung around their chubby necks.

When the bodies were stripped they were not thrown into the sea again, but were carried away and buried in a great green hollow near Perloe Cove, with a stone at the head of each to mark the spot. Though the graves cannot be distinguished now, the hollow may yet be seen.

For weeks after the wreck of the Portuguese Indiaman, the wreckers were continually finding gold and jewels washed in to the sand, and now and again more bodies were washed ashore, all richly dressed. Oh, it was a fine haul the wreckers had after that black storm, but one very curious thing happened such as had never happened before.

Amongst the bodies washed in was that of a beautiful lady, dressed in the richest of robes, and wearing more magnificent jewellery than any of the other poor creatures. In addition to her jewellery, too, she had, fastened about her, a very large amount of money and treasure, as though, poor lady, she had thought that she could not only save herself, but a great deal else as well.

When Madge Figgy, who had claimed this body, had finished stripping it, she stood gazing at it very attentively for a long time. She appeared to be troubled about something, almost frightened, in fact, and turning to the rest of the gang she forbade them to divide any of the spoil, or even to touch a single thing.

There was a fine row at that, of course, for they had all been counting on a rich share, and they vowed they would have it, too! They quarrelled, and fought, and a good deal of blood was spilt, but Madge took care of herself and got the better of them all, too, for it would have taken more than a gang of wreckers to outwit that wicked old woman.

She declared that there was a mark on the body which she understood, though no one else could, and that if they divided any of the things belonging to it, ill-luck would befall them all, and no one knew where it would end.

"Trust a witch to know a witch!" she cried. She got her way, as she generally did, for they were all afraid of her, and everything belonging to the poor lady was put into a chest which stood in Madge's kitchen, while the body was carried to the hollow and buried with the others.

The very night, though, after they had laid her in her grave, a very curious thing happened. Out from the grave there came, as soon as darkness fell, a little blue light. For a moment it flickered and gleamed on the newly made mound, then glided swiftly away up over the cliffs until it reached Madge Figgy's great granite chair. Up into the chair it glided, and there it stayed for a long time, a weird, mysterious gleam, looking most uncanny in the darkness. Then out of the chair it glided and made its way to Madge Figgy's cottage, where it floated across the threshold and straight to the chest where the dead lady's belongings lay.

All the wreckers were watching it, and all, except old Madge, were very nearly terrified out of their senses. They felt sure that at last their wickedness was to meet with its punishment, that the Evil One had come to carry them away, and their hours on earth were numbered.

Madge Figgy tried hard to laugh away their fears and cheer them up. She wanted no 'chicken-hearts' about her, men who would refuse to take part in her wicked work, or even carry tales where she did not want them carried.

"Get along, you great stupids, you!" cried Madge, trying to put some spirit into them, "it will all come right in time. I know all about it!"

It took a long time, though, and the people began to lose faith in Madge's cleverness; for three long months the little blue flame crept out of the dead lady's grave at nightfall, glided to Madge Figgy's chair, and then to the chest in the cottage, and nothing could stop it.

At the end of three months, when the people of the Cove were feeling they could not bear this thing any longer, there came to Madge's cottage one day a curiously dressed stranger. From his appearance all who saw him concluded that he was a foreigner, but from what part of the world he came no one could tell, for never a word escaped his lips.

Madge Figgy's old husband, who was home alone when the stranger arrived, was very nearly scared to death. Firstly because the sight of a stranger always frightened any of that wicked crew, and secondly because of the man's signs and curious gesticulations. Old Figgy thought that he was a madman, sure enough.

After some time, though, and a good many signs and misunderstandings, the old man gathered that the stranger wished to see the graves of the poor souls who went down in the wreck of the Portuguese Indiaman. Old Figgy put on his cap readily enough to show him the way, only too thankful to get him out of the house; but as soon as ever they had started on the right road, the stranger did not need any further guidance, he walked on by himself straight to the hollow, and making his way direct to the grave of the Portuguese lady he threw himself on it passionately, and broke into the most violent outburst of grief imaginable.

For some time old Figgy stood watching him in astonishment, until the foreigner, looking up, caught sight of him, and signed to him to go away; then returning to the grave, again, he threw himself on it once more and stayed there weeping and moaning until nightfall.

When darkness crept on up rose the little blue flame from the grave as before, but, instead of going to Madge Figgy's chair it made its way to the cottage, and gliding on to the chest, gleamed there with twice its usual brilliancy.

The foreigner, who had followed the flame closely, went, without let or hindrance from the old witch or anyone, straight to the chest, and clearing away with one sweep all the rubbish and lumber which were piled on it, opened it as if he had known it all his life, picked out everything in it that had belonged to the lady, then, without touching anything else that the chest contained, closed it again, and, after giving liberal gifts to every wrecker in the place, departed as mysteriously as he had come.

Anything of his history, or whence he came, was never discovered, but from the moment he left Madge Figgy's cottage neither he nor the little blue flame was ever seen again by any of them.

HOW MADGE FIGGY GOT HER PIG.

Madge Figgy, as you already know, spent most of her life in injuring someone. After she had left her cottage by the sea, where she spent so much of her time in robbing the dead, she went to live in St. Buryan, and there she spent her time in robbing the living, and doing any other mischief that came into her head to do.

One of her victims here was her near neighbour, Tom Trenoweth, a hard-working, struggling man who spent all his days trying to make both ends meet, and mostly failing, poor fellow. Now Tom had a sow, a fine great creature, on which he set great store, for when she was fattened up enough he meant to take her to Penzance Market, where he hoped to sell her for at least twenty shillings, for she was worth that and more of any man's money.

As ill-luck would have it, though, Madge Figgy caught sight of the sow one day, and from that moment she could not rest until she had got it for herself.

Over she bustled to Tom's house in a great hurry. "Tom," she said, "I've taken a fancy to that sow of yours, and I'll give 'ee five shillings for her, now this very minute, if you'll sell her. Four would be a good price, but I've set my mind on having her, and I don't mind stretching a point for a friend."

"I ain't going to sell her now," said Tom, "I'm fattening her up for market, and it's a long sight more than five shillings I'm thinking I'll get for her. So keep your money, Madge, you may want it yet," he added meaningly.

"Very well," replied the witch, shaking her finger at Tom, and wagging her head; "I won't press 'ee to sell the pig, but mark my words, before very long you will wish you had!" and away she went without another word.

Poor Tom! He did mark her words, and many a time he remembered them with sorrow, for from the moment they were uttered his sow began to fail. She ate and drank as much as ever he chose to give her, and seemed to enjoy her food, too, but instead of growing fatter she grew leaner and leaner, and from being a fine great beast, nearly fit for a Christmas market, she became a poor, spare-looking thing that no one would say 'thank you' for.

"Are you willing to sell her now, Tom?" cried cruel old Madge, popping her head round the door of the pig-sty one day, when Tom was feeding the animal.

"No, and I wouldn't sell her to you for her weight in gold," cried Tom, too desperate now to care whether he offended the woman or not. "So get home to your own house, you ill-wishing cross-grained old witch!"

Madge Figgy only smiled. "Don't lose your temper, Tom, my dear," she said sweetly, "'tis for me to do that. Just wait a bit, and I'll be bound that before another week is out you'll be glad to get rid of her, even to me!" and away trotted the mischievous old creature, cackling to herself, and rubbing her hands with glee.

"I'll fatten the pig up somehow," cried Tom desperately, and he began giving her more than double her usual quantity of food at each meal. He gave her enough, indeed, to fatten two pigs, and nearly ruined himself to do it; but the more she ate the thinner she grew, and before the week was out she was merely skin and bone. "I can't afford to spend no more on 'ee," said Tom sorrowfully, and he made up his mind to take her to market the very next day before she got any worse.

So, early the following morning they started off to walk to the market. Tom tied a string around the sow's leg to prevent her running away, but there was little enough fear of her doing that, for the poor thing could scarcely stand for weakness. In fact, she kept on falling down from sheer inability to support herself, and Tom had to pick her up and put her on her feet again, for she had not got the strength to get up by herself.

After a long time, for they only went at a snail's pace, they came to the high road. "I believe I'll have to take and carry her on my back," said Tom dolefully, "or we shan't get to market till night." But hardly had he spoken the words when the sow took to her heels, and ran as if she had been a stag with the hounds after her!

Poor Tom was nearly shaken to bits, and his arms were pretty nearly dragged from his body, for over hedges and ditches she went, and over everything else that came in her way, dragging Tom after her, until at last he had to drop the rope and let her take her chance, for his strength was all gone, and he had no breath left.

As soon, though, as Tom let go his hold of the rope, the creature stopped her mad race, and walked along as quietly and soberly as the best-behaved pig that ever breathed. She went, though, every way but the right one, and this she did for mile upon mile, taking Tom after her, until at last they came to Tregenebris Downs.

Here, where the two roads branch off, the one to Sancreed and the other to Penzance, Tom caught hold of the rope again, and tried once more to lead her to market, but the moment she came to the cross-roads, the sow started off at full speed again, jerking the rope out of Tom's hand, and careering away by herself until she got under Tregenebris Bridge. Here, though, she was forced to stop, for she stuck fast, and could not move backwards or forwards, for Tregenebris Bridge was a queer, old-fashioned construction, more like a big drain-pipe than anything, except that it was smaller in the middle than at the ends. Consequently, as she could not go through it and come out the other side, and she would not come back, she had to stay where she was.

Tom did not know what to do. He could not reach her to pull her out, and all his holloaing and shouting was so much waste of breath. He pelted her with stones and lumps of turf, first her head and then her tail, until he was tired, but he might just as well have left her, for all the good it did. She only grunted, and planted her feet more obstinately.

At last Tom, being quite worn out, sat down to rest, and waited to see what she would do if left to herself, but though he waited and waited till evening, the pig never budged. Tom, though, grew so hungry that he hardly knew how to bear with himself. He had had nothing to eat or drink since five in the morning, and he had tramped miles upon miles since that time.

"There don't seem much chance of the contrairy old thing's coming out, so I may as well go home to get some supper," he said at last. "If anybody finds her they'll know she's mine, for there isn't such another poor miserable creature in the parish. So here goes." But no sooner had he made a start than whom should he see coming towards him but Madge Figgy.

Madge was smiling to herself as she walked along, as though she were very well pleased about something. "Hulloa, Tom Trenoweth!" she cried, pretending to be surprised. "What are you doing here?"

"Well," said Tom, "that's more than I can tell you, but I ain't here for my own pleasure, I can assure you of that, and if you want to know more you can look under the bridge and find out for yourself."

"What's that grunting in there? Surely never your old sow! Well, she can't have fattened much if she's got in there! Are you in the mind to part with her now, Tom? What will you let me have her for now?"

"If you've got a bit of something to eat in your basket, for pity's sake let me have it, for I'm famished; and if you can get the old thing out of that there pipe you're welcome to her for your trouble," said Tom sullenly, for he felt small at giving in to his enemy after all.

"I've got a beautiful new kettle loaf in my basket, Tom; take it and welcome, do."

Tom seized the loaf and began to eat ravenously. "Thank 'ee," said he, pretending to smile. "I think I've got the best of that bargain, for anyway I've got a good loaf, and it'll take more than you to get out my old pig!"

"Ha, ha!" laughed Madge Figgy, "I'm glad you are pleased, Tom, ha, ha! refused five shillings, and took a twopenny loaf! I'm pleased with my share of the bargain, and I'm glad you are." Then turning towards the pig she called softly, "Chug! chug! chug! Come on, chug! chug! chug!"

Out walked the old sow at once, and going up to the witch, she trotted away down the road after her as tamely as a dog.

THE STORY OF SIR TRISTRAM AND LA BELLE ISEULT.

Long, long ago, when Arthur was King of England, and King Mark was King of Cornwall,—for there were many petty kings, who held their lands under King Arthur,—there was born in Lyonesse a little boy, a king's son.

Instead, though, of there being great joy and rejoicing at the birth of the little heir, sorrow reigned throughout Lyonesse, for his father, King Melodias, had been stolen away by enchantment, no one knew where. Nor could anyone tell how to release him, and the heartbroken queen was dying of grief, for she loved her husband very dearly.

When she saw her little son her tears fell fast on his baby face. "Call him Tristram," she said, "for he was born in sorrow," and as she spoke she fell back dead.

Little Tristram wailed right lustily, as though he fully realized his orphan state, and wept with pity for his own sad fate; and good cause he had to wail, too, poor little man, had he but known it, for already the greedy barons had cast their eyes on his land, longing to possess it and rule it. With only a baby boy standing between them and it, their way was easy enough. His death could easily be accomplished.

Fortunately, though, for him, and everyone else in the land, King Melodias was just then released from enchantment by Merlin the wizard, and came hurrying joyfully to his home, to embrace his beloved wife. Great was his grief when he found that she was dead, great was the moan he made in his sorrow. With great pomp and splendour he buried her, and for seven years lived a lonely life, mourning her.

At the end of that time he married again, but the stepmother hated little Tristram, the heir, and longed to destroy him, that her own child might be king. So one day she placed some poison in a cup for him to drink, but her own child, being thirsty, drank the poison and died.

The queen, broken-hearted at the loss of her boy, and horror-stricken at what she had done, hated her stepson more than ever after this, and once again she tried to kill him in the same manner. This time, though, King Melodias, spying the tempting-looking drink, took it up and was about to drink it, when the queen, seeing what he was about to do, rushed in and snatched it from him. Then he discovered her guilt, and his anger knew no bounds.

"Thou traitress!" he cried, "confess what manner of drink this is, or here and now I will run this sword through thy heart!"

So she confessed, and was tried before the barons, and by their judgment was given over to be burnt to death. The faggots were prepared, the queen was bound to the stake, and they were beginning to light the fire when little Tristram, flinging himself on his knees, besought his father with such entreaties to pardon her, that the king could not refuse. So the queen was released, and in time the king forgave her.

But, though he forgave her, he could never trust her again, and to protect little Tristram from her, he was sent to France, where he continued for some time, learning to joust and hunt, and do all things that were right and brave and noble; and seven years passed before he returned to his home in Lyonesse.

Lyonesse was the furthest point of Cornwall; it joined what we now call 'Land's End,' and stretched out through the sea until it reached the Scilly Islands, a wild, rugged, beautiful spot, washed on either side by the glorious Atlantic sea. One day, though, that glorious Atlantic rose like a mountain above Lyonesse, and where in the morning had been a beautiful city with churches and houses, and fertile lands, in the evening there was only a raging, boiling sea, bearing on its bosom fragments of the lost world it had devoured. This, though, was long after the time of which I am writing now.

For two years after his return from France, Tristram lived in Lyonesse, and then it happened that King Anguish of Ireland sent to King Mark of Cornwall to demand seven years' truage that was due to him. But when the demand reached King Mark, he and his knights absolutely refused to pay the money, and sent the messenger back, with none too polite a message, to say so. If he wanted the debt settled, they said, he could send the noblest knight of his court to fight for it, otherwise the king might whistle for his money.

King Anguish was furiously enraged when this message reached him, and calling to him at once Sir Marhaus, his biggest and trustiest knight, sent him without delay to Cornwall to fight this battle.

So Sir Marhaus set sail, and King Mark was troubled when he heard who was coming against him, for he knew well he had no knight to match him.

At last Sir Marhaus arrived, but he did not land at once; for seven days he abode in his ship, and each day he sent to King Mark a stern demand for the money.

The king had no intention of paying the money, but he sorely wanted a knight to fight for him. One worthy by birth and skill to meet this great champion; and in great ado he sent all over the country in search of such a one. At last, when none was to be found at home, someone counselled the king to send to King Arthur at Camelot for one of the Knights of the Round Table; but that could not be, for Sir Marhaus himself was a Round Table knight, and they, of course, never fought each other, unless it was in private quarrel.

When at last the news of all this reached young Tristram's ears, he felt very greatly mortified that there could not be found in Cornwall a knight to fight for their rights, and his heart burned within him to go and save the honour of the West Country. He went to his father, King Melodias. "It seems to me," he cried impetuously, "a shame to us all, that Sir Marhaus, who is brother to the Queen of Ireland, should go back and say we Cornishmen have no one worthy to fight him."

"Alas," answered the king, "know ye not that Sir Marhaus is one of the noblest of Arthur's knights, the best knights of the world? Beyond those of the Table Round I know none fit to match him."

"Then," cried Tristram, "I would I were a knight, for if Sir Marhaus departs to Ireland unscathed, I will never more hold up my head for very shame. Sir, give me leave to go to my uncle, King Mark, that I may by him be made a knight."

King Melodias could deny his son nothing, so, "Do as your courage bids you," he said, and Tristram, filled with joy, rode away at once to his uncle's court, and as soon as he arrived there he heard nothing but great dole made that no one could be found to fight the Irish knight.

"Who are you?" asked the king, when Tristram presented himself before him, "and whence come you?" he added, looking admiringly at the handsome stranger.

"Sir, I am Tristram of Lyonesse; I come from King Melodias, whose son I am; my mother was your sister."

Then King Mark rejoiced greatly, for he saw in this stalwart nephew a champion for Cornwall, and, having knighted him, he sent word to Sir Marhaus to say he had found a champion to do battle with him.

"I shall fight with none but of the blood-royal," Sir Marhaus sent back word; "your champion must be either a king's son or a queen's."

Whereupon King Mark sent word to say that his champion was better born than ever Sir Marhaus was, and that his name was Tristram of Lyonesse, whose father was a king, and his mother a queen, and a king's sister.

So it was arranged that the fight should take place on an island near, and thither Sir Tristram went in a ship with his horse, and his man Gouvernail, and all that he could need. And so noble he looked, and so brave, and of so good heart, that not one who saw him depart could refrain from weeping, for they never thought to see him return alive.

So, on the island those two noble knights met, and Sir Marhaus was sad to see one so young and well-favoured come against him. "I sore repent," said he, "of your courage, for hear me that against all the noblest and trustiest knights of the world have I been matched and never yet been beaten. So take my counsel, and return again to your ship while you are able."

"Sir," said Sir Tristram, throwing up his head proudly, "I have been made a knight that I might come against you, and I have sworn never to leave you until you are conquered or I am dead, for I will fight to the death to rescue Cornwall from the old truage."

So they lowered their spears, and without more ado the fight began, and such a fight as that was never seen or known before in Cornwall. At the very first charge they met with such force that Sir Marhaus's spear wounded Sir Tristram in the side, and horses and riders were sent rolling on the ground; but soon they were on their feet again, and freeing themselves of their horses and spears, they pulled out their shields and fought with swords. With their swords they slashed and smote each other until the blood poured from them in streams, and so courageous were they, and determined not to give in, that they fought on and on until it seemed as though that struggle would last for ever. They hurled at each other with such fury that the blood ran down them in streams, dyeing the ground all round, yet neither prevailed in the least degree.

By and by, though, Sir Tristram, being the younger and the better-winded, proved the fresher, and drawing up all his strength for one last effort, he smote Sir Marhaus on the helm with such force that Sir Marhaus fell on his knees, and the sword cleaving through helmet and skull stuck so fast in the bone that Sir Tristram had to pull three times at it with all his might before he could get it free, and when it did come, a piece of the edge of the sword was left behind in the skull.

Overcome with pain and shame at his defeat, Sir Marhaus with a mighty effort raised himself to his feet, and without speaking one word, flung from him his sword and his shield, and staggered away to his ship.

"Ah!" mocked Sir Tristram, "why do you, a knight of the Table Round, flee from a knight so young and untried as I?" But Sir Marhaus made as though he did not hear the taunts, but hurrying on board his ship, set sail with all possible speed.

"Well, Sir Knight," laughed Tristram, "I thank you for your sword and shield; I will keep them wherever I go, and the shield I will carry to the day of my death." So Sir Marhaus returned to Ireland, and there, in spite of all that physicians could do, he soon died of his disgrace and his wounds; and after he was dead, the piece of sword-blade, which could not be extracted before, was found embedded in his brainpan.

When the queen, his sister, saw the piece of sword-blade which was taken from her brother's skull, she asked that she might have it; and putting it away in a secret spot she vowed a solemn vow that when she had found out who had done this thing, she would never rest until she had had revenge.

But about that time Sir Tristram, who had been severely wounded himself, was also lying at the point of death, neither knowing nor caring to know of the blessings and praises showered upon him; and great was the grief that filled the hearts of all the leeches and surgeons for whom King Mark had sent, for not one was of any avail, and the gallant young knight who had saved the honour of Cornwall was more than like to die.

At last, when hope was well-nigh dead, there came a lady to the court who told King Mark that his nephew would never recover from his wounds unless he went to the land whence the poisoned spear came, for there only could he be healed.

So, with all speed was a vessel prepared, and on board it Sir Tristram was carried, and with his man Gouvernail, his dogs, his horses, and his harp, he sailed until he came to Ireland. Here they all landed, and Sir Tristram was borne carefully on shore, to a castle prepared for him, where he was laid on a bed, and there on his bed he lay day after day, playing on his harp so exquisitely that all the people crowded to listen to him, for such music had never been heard in that country before.

By and by the news of the presence of this wonderful player was carried to the king and queen, who were dwelling not very far away: and the king and queen sent for him to come to them; but when they found that he was a wounded knight, they had him brought to the castle, and there his wound was dressed and every care taken of him, for now they all grew to have a great admiration and liking for him. But who he was, or where he came from, they had no idea, for he had not told anyone his real name, or the story of the joust in which he got his wound.

Now in all that land there was no better surgeon than the king's own daughter, the lady Iseult,—who, because of her loveliness, was known as La Belle Iseult.—So presently the king, who came to feel a greater and greater liking for Sir Tristram, and was anxious to see him well again, gave him over to the charge of his daughter, in whose skill he had great faith; for none other seemed able to heal him.

So La Belle Iseult nursed him, and attended to his wound, and soon, at the bottom of it, she found the poison, which she removed, and quickly healed him. Before this end was reached, though, Sir Tristram had grown to love his beautiful nurse, and she her patient; for La Belle Iseult with her flower-like face and large grey eyes, her broad, low brow, round which her gleaming golden hair waved softly, and fell in heavy waves to her knees, was wondrously lovable. And Sir Tristram was more than passing noble, and his manners were gentle and courteous. When he grew stronger he taught Iseult to play the harp, and they sang songs together, so that they saw much of one another.

Someone else loved Iseult also, and this was Sir Palamides the Saracen, and many fair gifts he brought the lady to win her love. But ladies are not to be won thus, and Iseult did not love the Saracen knight. Indeed, she besought Sir Tristram to joust with him and conquer him, that she might be rid of him, both of which Sir Tristram did, though Sir Palamides had put to the worse many brave knights before, and most men were afraid of him. Sir Tristram, whom Iseult had arrayed in white harness, rode against him on a white horse and threw him, and Sir Palamides was sore ashamed and would have crept secretly from the field, and from the crowds of knights and ladies watching the jousts, had not Sir Tristram gone after him and bid him return and finish the joust. So Palamides returned and fought again, but once more Sir Tristram overthrew him, and this time wounded him so sore that he was at his mercy.

"Now," said Sir Tristram, "swear to me that you will do as I command, or I will slay you outright." Sir Palamides seeing his stern face, and remembering his strength, promised. "Then," said Sir Tristram, "promise never more to come near the lady La Belle Iseult, also that for a twelvemonth and a day you will bear no armour, nor wear any harness of war."

"Alas," cried Sir Palamides, "I shall be for ever ashamed and disgraced," but he had to promise, and in fierce vexation he cut to pieces the harness he then wore, and threw the pieces from him. No one but La Belle Iseult knew who the knight was who had jousted with the Saracen, until some time after; and when it was known, Sir Tristram was loved more than ever by the king and queen, as he was already by their daughter.

So month after month Sir Tristram lingered on in Ireland, and did many a noble deed during that time, and there he might have gone on living to the end of the chapter, if it had not been for a sore mischance which befell thus.

One day, while Sir Tristram was absent, the queen and the lady Iseult were wandering up and down his room, when the queen suddenly espied Sir Tristram's sword lying on a couch, and seeing it to be of fine workmanship and delicately wrought, she lifted it the better to examine it, and she and Iseult stood admiring it together. Then presently the queen drew the sword slowly from out its scabbard, and there, within an inch and a half of the point, she espied the broken edge of the blade.

Thrusting the weapon into Iseult's hands she ran to her chamber, where she had, safely locked away, the piece of steel which had been taken from her brother's skull; and bringing it back fitted it to the broken blade exactly.

At that her anger knew no bounds, nor her mortification that they should have treated so well, and grown to love, the slayer of her brother. Sir Tristram happening to return at that moment, her anger so overmastered her that, seizing the sword, she rushed on him and would have slain him there and then, had not Gouvernail caught her and wrested the weapon from her.

Being frustrated she ran in a frenzy of hate to her husband. "My lord," she cried, "we have here, in our very home, the destroyer and slayer of my brother, your most noble and trusty knight."

"Who is he?" cried King Anguish, springing to his feet, "and where?"

"Sir, it is this same knight whom your daughter has healed, and whom we have loved and treated well. I beseech you have no mercy on him, for he deserves none."

"Alas, alas," cried the king, "I am right sorry, for he is as noble a knight as ever I saw. Do him no violence. Leave him to me, and I will deal with him according to my best judgment."

So the king, who loved Sir Tristram, and could not bring himself to have him slain, went to Tristram's chamber, and there he saw him dressed, and ready to mount his horse. Then and there the king told him all that he had learnt, and said, "I love you too well to do you harm, therefore I give you leave to quit this court on one condition, that you tell me your real name, and if you really slew my brother-in-law, Sir Marhaus."

So Tristram told him all his story, and then took leave of the king and all the court; and great was the grief at his departure, but by far the saddest leave-taking was that between him and La Belle Iseult, for they loved each other very dearly. And when they parted Sir Tristram swore to be ever her true and faithful knight, and she, that for seven years she would marry no one else, unless by his consent or desire. Then each gave the other a ring, and with a last long kiss they parted.

So Sir Tristram returned at last to Cornwall, and there stayed with his uncle Mark, at Tintagel, and great were the rejoicings that he had returned recovered of his wound, and stronger and more noble-looking than ever.

When, though, he had been back a little time, a great quarrel arose between King Mark and his nephew, and their feelings grew very hot and angry towards one another. It was about a beautiful lady that they quarrelled, a lady whom King Mark loved more than passing well. He thought that Sir Tristram loved her too, and she him, and he was so jealous of Sir Tristram that one day he and his knights, disguised, rode after him to see if he had gone to meet her. And as Tristram came riding back King Mark bore down on him, and they fought until the king was so wounded that he lay on the ground as though dead, and Sir Tristram rode on his way. He never knew that it was his uncle with whom he had fought, but from that day to the day of his death, though they were fair-spoken to each other, the king never forgave his nephew or loved him again.

Indeed, he hated him so much that he ever plotted to injure him, and at last one day he thought of a plan by which he could ruin Tristram's happiness, and probably get him killed as well.

Now it happened that when Sir Tristram had first returned from Ireland he had told his uncle of La Belle Iseult, of her beauty, and grace, and skill; for his heart was ever filled with love and admiration for her, and to him she was the very fairest woman in the world. So to wound Sir Tristram, and to take a sore and cruel revenge upon him, King Mark determined to ask her in marriage for himself, and to make his cruelty the greater, he determined that Sir Tristram should be the knight who should go to Ireland as his ambassador to ask her hand of King Anguish, her father.

Sending for Sir Tristram he laid his commands upon him, rejoicing in the heavy task he was laying upon him, watching him closely to note how he would bear it. But Sir Tristram, though sad at heart and deeply troubled, bore himself bravely, and accepted the task; for to have refused it would have been a cowardice and a shame, and not the conduct of a true knight.

Without delay he set about preparing for his sad journey. He had made ready a large vessel, fitted in the most sumptuous manner possible, and taking with him some chosen knights dressed in the most goodly style, he set sail from Tintagel for Ireland. Before they had got far, though, a fierce storm burst over them, and beat their vessel about until she was driven back to England, to the coast of Camelot, where King Arthur dwelt, and right glad they were to take to the land.

There, when they were landed, Sir Tristram set up his tent, and hanging his shield without it, lay down to rest. Hardly, though, was he lain down, before two knights of the Round Table, Sir Ector de Maris and Sir Morganor, came and rapped on the shield, bidding him come forth and joust.

"Wait awhile," called back Sir Tristram, "and I will bring you my answer." Then he hastily dressed himself, and came out to the two impatient knights, and without much ado he first smote down Sir Ector and then Sir Morganor, with the same spear.

"Whence come you, and whose knight are you?" they asked as they lay on the ground, unable to rise because of their bruises.

"My lords," answered Sir Tristram, "I am from Cornwall."

"Alas, alas, I am sore ashamed that any Cornish knight should have overcome me," cried Sir Ector. And so ashamed was he that he put off his armour and went away on foot, for he would not ride.

Now it happened about this time that King Anguish of Ireland was sent for to appear at King Arthur's court at Camelot, to answer a charge of treason brought against him by Sir Blamor de Ganis, and Sir Bleoberis, his brother; which was that he had slain at his court a cousin of theirs and of Sir Launcelot.

The king, who had not known for why he was sent, was sore abashed when he heard the charge, for he knew there were only two ways to settle the matter, either he must fight the accuser himself, or he must get a knight to do so for him, and very heavy-hearted he was, for Sir Blamor was a powerful knight, and one of the trustiest of the Table Round, and King Anguish knew that now Sir Marhaus was dead he had no knight in Ireland to match him.

Three days he had in which to decide upon his answer, and great was his perplexity as to what it should be.

Meanwhile, Gouvernail went unto his master and told him that King Anguish was arraigned for murder, and was in great distress. Whereupon Sir Tristram replied, "This is the best news I have heard these seven years, that the King of Ireland hath need of my help. I dare be sworn there is no knight in England, save of Arthur's court, that dare do battle with Sir Blamor de Ganis. Bring me to the king then, Gouvernail, for to win his love I will take this battle on myself."

So Gouvernail went to King Anguish, and told him that a knight wished to do him service. "What knight?" said he.

"Sir Tristram of Lyonesse," answered Gouvernail, "who, for your goodness to him in your own land, would fain assist you in this."

Then was the king right overjoyed, and went unto Sir Tristram's pavilion, and when Sir Tristram saw him he would have knelt and held his stirrup for him to dismount, but the king leapt lightly to the ground, and they embraced each other with great gladness, and the king told his tale.

"Sir," said Sir Tristram, "for your good grace to me, and for the sake of your daughter, Belle Iseult, I will fight this battle, but you must grant me two requests. The first is, you must give me your own word that you were not consenting unto this knight's death; the second, that if I win this battle you shall give me as reward whatsoever reasonable thing I ask." Whereupon the king swore to both of them, and then went to tell his accusers that he had a knight ready to fight Sir Blamor. Then King Arthur commanded Sir Tristram and Sir Blamor to appear before the judges, and when they came many kings and knights who were present recognized Sir Tristram as the young unknown knight who had fought and conquered Sir Marhaus of Ireland, and the excitement grew intense, for two lustier knights than Sir Tristram and Sir Blamor could not have been found.

So the time was fixed, and the combatants retired to their tents to prepare for battle.

"Dear brother," said Bleoberis to Blamor, "remember of what kin you are, and how Sir Launcelot is our cousin, and suffer death rather than shame, for none of our blood was yet shamed in battle."

"Fear not," answered Sir Blamor stoutly, "that I will ever disgrace our kin. Yonder knight is a goodly man, but I swear I will never yield, nor say the loth word. He may smite me down by his chivalry, but he shall slay me before I say the loth word."

So the two champions rode to meet each other from opposite sides of the lists, and they feutred their spears and charged each other with so great force that it sounded as though the heavens were sending forth loud thunders, and then Sir Tristram by his great strength bore Sir Blamor to the ground, and his horse under him.

He was quickly clear of his horse, though, and on his feet again. "Alight, Sir Tristram," he cried, pulling out his sword, "my horse has failed me, but the earth shall not."

So together they rushed, and lashed at each other in fury, slashing and tearing, foining, and making such fearful strokes that the kings and knights held their breath in horror and amazement that two men could use each other so, and neither give in. But so fierce were they that their stabs and cuts might have been falling on men of wood, so little heed did they pay. So fast and furiously they fought, that the wonder was they had breath to keep on; but Sir Blamor was the more furious, and therefore the less wary, so that by and by Sir Tristram saw an opportunity and smote him such a crushing blow on the head that he fell over on his side, and Sir Tristram stood over him.

Then was Sir Blamor's shame piteous. "Kill me, Sir Tristram," he cried, "as you are a noble knight, for I would not live. Not to be lord of the whole universe would I endure with shame; and I will never say the loth word, so the victory is not yours unless you slay me."

Sir Tristram was sore perplexed what to do. He could not bring himself to kill this noble knight; but for his party's sake he must, unless Sir Blamor would say the loth word. So he went to the assembled kings, and kneeling before them he besought them that they would take the matter into their hands. "For," said he, "it is a cruel pity that such a noble knight should be slain, and I pray God he may not be slain or shamed by me. I beseech the king, whose champion I am, that he will have mercy upon this good knight."

Sir Bleoberis, though, as hotly demanded that his brother should be slain outright, until the judges gave him stern reproof.

"It shall not be," they said, "both King Anguish and his champion knight have more mercy than thou," and they went to King Anguish, and he, good man, gave up his claim, and resigned the loth word, as each champion was proved of good faith. And so it was settled, and so rejoiced were Sir Bleoberis and his brother, and right grateful for their goodness, that they swore eternal friendship to King Anguish and Sir Tristram, and each kissed the other, and swore a vow that neither would come against the other in combat.

Then King Anguish and Sir Tristram set sail for Ireland, with great splendour and gladness, and right welcome was Sir Tristram when the people heard what he had done for their king and for them. Great were the rejoicings, and great the joy, but the joy of Iseult was greater than all the rest together, for she still loved Sir Tristram with all her heart and soul. Then as the days came and went, much did King Anguish marvel that Sir Tristram had not made his second request, but Sir Tristram was fain to postpone doing so, for he was heavy-hearted at his task. At last King Anguish asked him, saying, "Sir Knight, you have not yet asked of me your reward."

"Alas," said Sir Tristram sadly, "the time is come. I would ask you for your daughter Iseult to take back with me to Cornwall,—not for myself, but to wed the king, my uncle Mark; for full well he knows how she surpasseth all in beauty, and wisdom, and charm, for I myself have told him of her, until he desireth her greatly for his queen and lady."

"Ah me!" cried King Anguish in amazement, and, "Ah me!" he sighed, "I would you had asked her for yourself, Sir Tristram. Right glad would I have been to have called you 'son!'"

"That can never be now," said Sir Tristram gently; "I should be false to my trust, and for ever shamed. My uncle commanded me to come, and I have promised."

So a great feasting and merry-making began, and all things were made ready for La Belle Iseult to sail to another land to be made a queen. Now whether the queen, Iseult's mother, saw that Sir Tristram and her daughter loved each other, or whether she feared that her daughter might not love King Mark, no one will ever know, but she set to work to concoct a love-drink, brewing it from delicate herbs and simples, which when ready she enclosed in a golden flask. This she handed to Dame Bragwaine, La Belle Iseult's waiting-woman, bidding her guard it with all care, and not let it out of her sight until La Belle Iseult and King Mark were wedded, when she was to give it to them that they might each drink of it, so that a great and holy love should rise and grow between them, never to die until their lives ended.

So, on a certain day a dainty vessel, all painted white and silver, and furnished with the utmost richness and beauty, set sail from Ireland. At the prow glittered a golden swallow, all set with gems, and on board were Tristram and Iseult.

Silently, swiftly they glided through the waters, the sun shone softly, the breeze lightly caressed the dainty, bird-like vessel and the white fluttering canvas, as though afraid to breathe on anything so lovely as the lady lying amidst her silken cushions and cloth of gold. Then it stole modestly away, only to return again, full fain to touch her golden hair, or her delicate cheek. The scent of the land-flowers filled the air, for the vessel was gaily bedecked with all the fairest and most delicate.

In this little nest of luxury sat Tristram and Iseult, he so stalwart, noble, bronzed, she so surpassingly beautiful, gentle and lovable. All through the long, warm days they sat listening each to the other's talk, and when the sun went down and left them to the fair white light of the moon, they still sat and talked, or looked at each other, for the mere sight of each filled the other's heart with joy.

Oh the pity of it all! the pity of it! Such a nobly-matched pair was never seen before nor since.