The grey of night had come down, and only the outlines of the landscape, with here and there a foam-wreath curling about the rocks, could be descried by the looker out. Evidently such an imperfect view was not to Bartle’s liking, for very soon he got up, donned his seaman’s hat of waterproof, and without a word left the house. It was not pleasant out in that shivering cold, and the sullen man was not a good companion, but he had scarcely quitted the cottage ere he was followed by his sons. They were fine manly boys of twelve and fourteen, on whose honest faces lurked no resemblance to the hard features of their father. It seemed that they followed Bartle with reluctance, but certainly with a purpose, and he was not long in observing them. Turning round, he addressed the boys savagely, with a “What do you want? where are you bound for, you young rascals?” They hesitated some time, and then Rassmie, as the oldest, replied, “Mother told us to go after you in case you might want help or a messenger, for she guessed you were going to look after the ship we saw locking the land this afternoon.” These were simple enough words, but they roused Bartle’s passion in an instant, and, catching Rassmie by the collar, he would have flung the poor boy to the ground, had not Hermann thrown himself on his father’s arm, and so prevented the blow from falling On his beloved brother. “You young scoundrels,” shouted Bartle, shaking them from him; “what do you mean by dogging me like this, as if I were a madman who required a keeper, or—” “A sinner who needs a Saviour,” said the meek voice of Doya, who had come to the spot. “Don’t be angry with me, Bartle; don’t hurt the poor boys, they are too young and innocent to dream of what _I_ know is true, or to suspect the real motive of your going from home at this late and stormy hour. Oh, Bartle! it is years since I spoke to you thus—listen to me. Let me lead you home again, or let us rouse the neighbours, that your already red hand may be held from further crime.” I may not repeat to you all the profane abuse with which Bartle Henderson replied to the timid entreaties of his wife, while the boys stood by, too terrified to move or speak. When he had exhausted his powers of swearing (and they were not by any means limited), and had ordered his wife and children to return to the house, Bartle took his way along the rough beach with a rapid stride and a lowering look on his face that it was not good to see. Doya gazed after the figure of her husband until it was lost in the obscurity of nightfall. Her face was very pale, and sad, and spiritless. She scarcely knew what instinct had told her to follow Bartle and speak words which she had never ventured to address to him since the early days of their married life, when first she came to know the dark mystery of his means of livelihood.