The breath of the person who saw it for the first time was held as he looked in vain for the brave diver, or wondered whether the act he had seen was not some mad effort to destroy life. There was the foaming water, there the black rocks, that were swept over by the roaring wave, but now showing plainly amidst a sheet of white surf, with beyond them a comparatively smooth surface, through which a current seems to run. But there was no diver to be seen, nothing but the racing, hissing foam. Yes: there he was--that was his head, rising out of the foam thirty or forty yards away, and being carried to inevitable destruction against those terrible jagged rocks. No man could swim against the furious, racing torrent which was now passing between them. No one could get out of such a current when once in. It was horrible to look at, for the helpless swimmer seemed as if he would be dashed against the crags and then float, stunned, wounded, and helpless, out to sea. That seemed to be Mark Penelly's fate; but no--as he neared the gate in the Shangles he could be seen to turn over upon his back, keeping his head well out of the water, paddling with his hands, and feet foremost, showing from time to time amongst the foam, literally shooting like a canoe right between the rocks, to float directly after in smooth water, and calmly swim round towards the shore. The feat had been seen hundreds of times; every swimmer who had attained manhood could do it; and at times it was hard work to keep back the venturesome boys. But no matter when it was done there was always a cheer for the brave young fellow who took the leap, and who was now seen to alter his mind, and make for a fishing lugger a quarter of a mile away--one which was just coming in from the fishing-ground miles away. "Huh, Harry Paul," said one of a group of dark, weather-tanned fishermen, to a fair-haired, clear-skinned young fellow of two or three and twenty; who had just thrown his straw-hat upon the rocks, showing his crisp, short, yellowish hair, and broad, white forehead. "Going to have a swim?" "Yes," said the young man quietly, as he proceeded to divest himself of his neckerchief and let loose his thick white throat; "nice night for it." "Where are you going, lad?" said another, for somehow they took a great interest in his proceedings. "Oh, I thought of swimming out to James's boat and back, or else coming back in her. She seems to have plenty of fish." "Ay, lad, plenty," said another; "they've been signalling that they're 'most full. But when are you going to take the jump, lad, eh?" "I don't know," said Harry quietly, as he went on preparing for his bathe; "perhaps never." "I wonder at you, Master Harry," said another, a grey-headed old fisherman. "Here's you, son of the biggest owner here in Carn Du, a young chap as can swim like a seal, and yet never had the pluck to take the big leap."