The boat landed on a patch of gravel, stretching out into the water, and falling back, in a long and gradual rise, on a row of cottages, opening into the village. As he stepped to the shore, Hildebrand ordered the boatmen, who were the same two that had accompanied him on a former occasion, to wait his return, and then set forward for the cottages. On approaching these, he was not sorry to observe, by the help of the moonlight, that long fishing-nets were hanging up on their exteriors, as that fact informed him that they were inhabited by a class of people who were associated with his profession, and with whom, consequently, he could converse freely. His expectations were so far realized, that he soon met with a fisherman, among the inmates of the nearest cottage, who engaged to bring him an undertaker--what he most needed; and immediately set off in quest of one. The undertaker quickly made his appearance; and Hildebrand, taking him aside, informed him what he required him for, and at once engaged him to perform it. “The person deceased,” he concluded, “is a woman; but only my pantler, whom I have charged to attend thee, is advised hereof. Thou wilt be secret?” “As death!” answered the man of funerals. “Here is gold for thee,” returned Hildebrand, thrusting a piece of gold in his hand. “Get some dressers, and go aboard out of hand.” The fisherman’s wife, at the instance of the undertaker, agreed to attend in the capacity specified, and, all being thus settled, Hildebrand induced both her and the undertaker to accompany him straight to the boat, and enter on their melancholy duties at once. Having seen them bestowed in the boat, and the boat pushed off for the ship, he turned away, and repaired to the village again. Through the medium of the friendly fisherman, he soon procured a couple of horses (which were his next want), and a guide, to convey him to London. These acquired, he made no further delay, but set out for the metropolis on the instant. Bitter and excruciating were the reflections that pressed upon him during his journey. The death of Inez, though it had not taken him by surprise, seemed both to have deprived his body of its vigour, and his spirit of its powers of endurance. The poet says,-- “High minds, of native pride and force, Most deeply feel thy pangs, Remorse!”--