"What in the world have people to do or live for here?" said Will. "We are five miles from any place that can be called a town, and there's scarcely a house near. Everything is as weird and lonely as the wilderness of Judea." "I expect they live on the fish they catch, and the produce of their little farms," I said; "but come, there's a man yonder, we'll question him." Accordingly we hailed him and he waited, evidently with some degree of curiosity, until we came up. "What's the name of this place?" asked Will. "Trewinion," was the reply. "Trewinion? Is it in the parish of Trewinion?" "Iss." "Is there a parish church anywhere near?" "Iss." "Where?" "There," pointing southward. We saw a little grey tower about half a mile away, evidently a part of the building after which we had been inquiring. "Are there any houses there?" we asked. "Five." "Whose are they?" "Passon Teague's, Muster Yelland's, Bill Treloar's, Tom Williams's, and Jack Jory's." "And what's the name of yonder place?" asked Will, pointing to the old house we had seen on the great headland. The man looked at us curiously, and then replied: "Trewinion Manor." "It looks old," I said. "Is it?" "Ould's Mathusla," was the brief reply. "Who lives there?" "Th' oull Sir Nick." "Sir Nick" is the term usually applied by the Cornish people to his Satanic Majesty. Scenting a story I eagerly inquired what he meant. "Well, he d' live there," was the reply. "And what does he do?" The man shook his head gravely. "Nobody knows but hisself," was the reply. "But does the devil live there alone?" asked Will. The man looked at us again, as though he wondered who we were. "Who be you?" he said. "We are simply out for a holiday," I replied, "and, as we were walking along, we saw that old place, and wondering what it was, and to whom it belonged, we thought we'd ask." "Then you be'ant no friend or 'lation to un up there?" he said. "None." "Nor you wa'ant say nothin' to un ef I tell 'ee?" "Not a word." "Well, then, ould Squire Trewinion do live there." "Alone?" The man shook his head. "Two ould servants," he said, solemnly. "Is there anything strange about him?" I asked. "Shud think ther es," he replied. "What?" "What! Why he've sold hisself to tho'ull Sir Nick, who do stick to un like a limpet to a rock." As this mediaeval belief has scarcely died away among the Cornish people, I attached no importance to it, but asked in a jocular way for what he had sold himself. "Nobody knows," the man replied, "but he hev sould hisself, and now he do never come out to shaw hisself nor nothin'. He wa'ant speak to nobody, and is as ugly as sin." "Are these Trewinions important people?" asked Will. "'Portant!" said the man, "sh'd think they be; why oal the land round do belong to un, and I've heerd my faather say as 'ow in th' ould days it was the grandest plaace in oal Cornwall; but now--m--m--m!" "Now, what?" I asked. "Hunted!"