The admiral’s body was carried by the tidal current to Porth Hellick, and there found burial till it was exhumed and removed to its present more dignified resting-place in Westminster Abbey. If you go to Porth Hellick, the fisher-people round about will show you the very spot of his temporary burial—not a blade of grass grows upon it! If you ask them they will tell you the reason. A Cornish sailor, on board the admiral’s ship, warned the officer in command of the nearness of the rocks of Scilly, and bid him beware. This was intolerable, and the man, though he had ventured, from his local knowledge, to tell his superior of approaching danger, was judged by Sir Cloudesley guilty of a gross breach of discipline, and ordered forthwith to be hanged at the yardarm. Here he was hanging when the vessel struck the rocks. Of course tradition says that the disaster was but a due punishment of the admiral for his injustice and a response to the curses of the sailor, who had before his execution repeated the 109th Psalm, and made its imprecations applicable to those at whose hands he was dying. Sir Cloudesley, so the story goes on, was not drowned in that shipwreck, but was washed ashore, exhausted from exposure, close to the spot in question. On his finger glistened a diamond set in a most precious ring: the man who found him could not resist this wonderful heaven-sent gift, and, lest the wearer should hinder him from getting it, battered out of him the little remaining life he possessed, and buried him in the sand. There is a common Cornish superstition that over a sinner’s grave the grass will not grow; and that is why the ground which covered the admiral’s body still lies bare. Mark the deliciously national sentiment displayed in the story. The murdered man, not the murderer, is the sinner! It was no crime in the wrecker’s law to slaughter a man, or a woman either, on whose body was valuable jewelry or costly raiment; the worth of that jewelry or raiment was regarded, as Sir John Killegrew told Carleton, as ‘God’s grace’ sent to them! If you dip into Cornish legend you will see this illustrated over and over again. And more: not only was it no murder to kill the living man or woman who might hinder you from gathering in the harvest of the sea—the harvest that God sent you: it was no murder to kill the revenue officer who tried to stop you in gathering the harvest your illicit trade sent you. The graves of some of these officers used, a couple of generations ago, to be shown in the Cornish churchyards, bare of grass, and the reason was that those who lay beneath them were murderers—murderers because in doing their duty to their king and country they had brought to the scaffold some notorious smuggler who likely enough, as a wrecker, had slaughtered some half-drowned victim of shipwreck to strip his body! But this is a digression; let us resume our narrative of St. Agnes lighthouse.