"Do you really think that gentlemanly creature in the Laureate's epic--that most polished and perfect and most intensely modern English gentleman, self-contained, considerate of others, always the right man in the right place--is one whit like that half-naked sixth century savage--the real Arthur--whose Court costume was a coat of blue paint, and whose war-shriek was the yell of a Red Indian? What can be more futile than our setting up any one Arthur, and bowing the knee before him, in the face of the fact that Great Britain teems with monuments of Arthurs--Arthur's Seat in Scotland, Arthur's Castle in Wales, Arthur's Round Table here, there, and everywhere? Be sure that Arthur--Ardheer--the highest chief--was a generic name for the princes of those days, and that there were more Arthurs than ever there were Cæsars." "I don't believe one word you say," exclaimed Christabel, indignantly, "there was only one Arthur, the son of Uther and Ygerne, who was born in the castle that stood on this very cliff, on the first night of the year, and carried away in secret by Merlin, and reared in secret by Sir Anton's wife--the brave good Arthur--the Christian king--who was killed at the battle of Camlan, near Slaughter Bridge, and was buried at Glastonbury." "And embalmed by Tennyson. The Laureate invented Arthur--he took out a patent for the Round Table, and his invention is only a little less popular than that other product of the age, the sewing-machine. How many among modern tourists would care about Tintagel if Tennyson had not revived the old legend?" The butler had put up a bottle of champagne for Mr. Hamleigh--the two ladies drinking nothing but sparkling water--and in this beverage he drank hail to the spirit of the legendary prince. "I am ready to believe anything now you have me up here," he said, "for I have a shrewd idea that without your help I should never be able to get down again. I should live and die on the top of this rocky promontory--sweltering in the summer sun--buffeted by the winter winds--an unwilling Simeon Stylites." "Do you know that the very finest sheep in Cornwall are said to be grown on that island," said Miss Bridgeman gravely, pointing to the grassy top of the isolated crag in the foreground, whereon once stood the donjon keep. "I don't know why it should be so, but it is a tradition." "Among butchers?" said Angus. "I suppose even butchers have their traditions. And the poor sheep who are condemned to exile on that lonely rock--the St. Helena of their woolly race--do they know that they are achieving a posthumous perfection--that they are straining towards the ideal in butcher's meat? There is room for much thought in the question." "The tide is out," said Christabel, looking seaward; "I think we ought to do Trebarwith sands to-day." "Is Trebarwith another of your lions?" asked Angus, placidly. "Yes."