On reaching the fork the pedestrian did not hesitate, as a stranger might have done, but took the left-hand path. After proceeding a few steps along it, however, he made a sudden half-turn, and stopped, looking across the open ground towards the Towers, where one room on the ground floor made a patch of light against the dark background of sky and sea. The man stood but a moment, then resumed his march along the path in the same direction as before. A smile wreathed his lips, and he muttered to himself. He went on at a smart pace over the level ground, turned to the right when he came to the road, passed the Towers’ gates, which he observed were broken, and walked for another quarter of a mile before he again halted. Then he set his burden down by the roadside, sat upon it, and wiped his heated face, where the smile had been replaced by a frown. "I daresay I’m a fool," he muttered in a growling undertone. "Why did I chafe and gall myself with carrying this plaguey trunk? However, maybe ’tis best." While he was still resting, he heard footsteps upon his right hand, and looked round quickly. The moon was up, and he saw a young fisherman rolling along a path that ran into the road a few paces distant. "Ahoy, there!" cried the traveller in a deep and mellow voice. The fisherman, who had not as yet perceived him, came to a sudden stop as the silence of the night was broken thus unexpectedly and so near at hand; then, catching sight of the figure on the trunk, he slipped off the path on to the grass and began to run. "Ahoy, there! What ails you?" cried the man. "D’you want to earn a groat?" Reassured, apparently, at the mention of so material a thing as a groat, the fisherman turned and came slowly towards the speaker. "Did you think I was a ghost?" the stranger went on with a laugh. "I want you to carry this trunk to the village, and I’ll give you a groat for your pains." "I’ll do it, maister," replied the fisher, shouldering the trunk. "But ye give me a fright, that ye did." "Why, you never saw a ghost with a brown face, and a black hat, and a blue coat, not to speak of brown breeches and long boots, did you?" "I won’t say I did, but the neighbours do say there be ghosteses up-along by St. Cuby’s Well. Maybe yer a furriner, maister?" "No, no; I’m good Cornish like yourself," replied the man, who knew that to Cornishmen all who lived beyond the borders of the duchy were accounted foreigners. "Well, I can see plain ye be a high person, and jown me if I know why ye carry yer own bag and traipse afoot, instead o’ coming a-horseback, or in a po’chay." The traveller shot a glance at the lad. He saw a rugged profile, a brow on which thought had carved no furrows, a half-open mouth: the physiognomy of a simple countryman. Then, after a scarcely perceptible pause, he said: