'Yes. Until the Preventive Service put an end to the trade, the Roseveans were the most successful and the most daring smugglers in the islands. But an unlucky family. All these drownings make people talk. Old wives' talk, I dare say. But for something one of them did--wrecking a ship, robbing the dead, who knows--they say the bad luck will go on till something is done--I know not what.' He got up and put on his cap, the blue-cloth cap with a cloth peak, much affected in Scilly, because the wind blows off any other form of hat ever invented. 'It is ten o'clock--I must go. Did you ever hear the story, gentlemen, of the Scillonian sailor?' He sat down again. 'I believe it must have been one of the Roseveans. He was on board a West Indiaman, homeward bound, and the skipper got into a fog and lost his reckoning. Then he asked this man if he knew the Scilly Isles. "Better nor any book," says the sailor. "Then," says the skipper, "take the wheel." In an hour crash went the ship upon the rocks. "Damn your eyes!" says the skipper, "you said you knew the Scilly Isles." "So I do," says the man; "this is one of 'em." The ship went to pieces, and near all the hands were lost. But the people of the islands had a fine time with the flotsam and the jetsam for a good many days afterwards.' 'I believe,' said the young man--he who answered to the name of Dick--'that this patriot is buried in the old churchyard. I saw an inscription to-day which probably marks his tomb. Under the name is written the words "Dulce et decor"--but the rest is obliterated.' 'Very likely--they would bury him in the old churchyard. Good-night, gentlemen!' 'Roland!' The young man called Dick jumped from the settle. 'Roland! Pinch me--shake me--stick a knife into me--but not too far--I feel as if I was going off my head. The fair Armorel's father was a corsair, who was drowned on his way from the coast of France, with his grandfather and his great-grandfather and great-grand-uncles, after having been cast away upon the Chesil Bank, and never heard of again, though he was wanted on account of a keg of French brandy picked up in the Channel. He made an immense pile of money, which has been lost; and there's an old lady at the farm so old--so old--so very, very old--it takes your breath away only to think of it--that she married Methusalem. Her husband was drowned--a new light, this, on history--and of course she escaped on the Ark--as a stowaway or a cabin passenger. Armorel plays the fiddle and makes the old lady jump.' 'We'll go over there to-morrow.' 'We will. It is a Land of Enchantment, this outlying bit of Lyonesse. Meanwhile, just to clear my brain, I think I must have a whisky. The weakness of humanity demands it. Oh! 'twas in Tregarthen's bar, Where the pipes and whiskies are----