I hurried down to be one of the knot of people who crowded round, when my heart sank, for it was as I feared: the captain, a fine, calm, stern-browed man, lay there amongst the cordage, one leg in the slings, as if about to venture, when that cruel wave poured ruin on the deck of the ship, and tore away his last chance for life. Twisted, tangled, and confused, the ropes lay together, and it was only by means of a free use of their clasp-knives that the beachmen and sailors set the poor fellow free. Slowly and sadly we stood round, looking down upon the pale features of the brave man who had clung to his ship till the last of his crew was ashore; but there was no weeping and wailing wife to cast herself upon the cold, drenched form, and sweep the hair from his broad forehead; so slowly, and with the crowd following in silence, we bore the corpse to the inn, to lay it side by side with that of the wife he had tried to save. A young, noble-looking pair, with faces calm and pale, seeming but to sleep as they lay there hushed in death--in that great mystery, for the sea had conquered. "Sixty years have I lived down here, man and boy," said a fisherman, in his pleasant sing-song tone, "and if I were to try and count up the lives of men as the great sea has taken, I could hardly believe it. I've seen the sea-shore strewn with wreck, and I've known the waves cast up the dead day after day for weeks after a storm; some calm and pale-faced, some beaten, torn, and not to be looked upon without a shudder. Seems, sir, as if the sea kept 'em as long as it could, and then cast them up and busily tried to hide 'em, throwing up sand and shells--sand and shells, so that I've found them, sometimes half-hidden, and the water lapping melancholy-like around. Now it's some poor fisherman--now a sailor, or a gentleman been a-yachting, or a foreigner from some fine vessel. Every year hundreds taken, and every dead body with such a tale of sorrow, and misery, and wretchedness attached as would make your heart ache could you but read it. Ah, the sea is a great thing, and I as live by it knows it well. To-day you see it quiet and still--to-morrow it's tearing at the shore with fury, and it's only God who can still its rage." But still, year after year, in their calm dependence upon His great arm, our fishers and sailors put forth to tempt the perils of the vast deep for their livelihood. Right and left of them others are taken; but still the busy toilers thrust forth from the shore and make their voyage easily, or in an agony of fear are overtaken by the storm, and at length, "being exceedingly tossed with the tempest... lighten the ship." And, again, when run ashore, cling terror-stricken to the vessel and its rigging, till beaten off before succour arrives when they are cast ashore. CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE. THE FIRST STRAY HAIR.