Dan and Ewan exchanged glances, and each seemed in one moment to read the other's thoughts. In another instant, at three quick strides, Dan had taken Davy by the shoulders. "Promise," he said, "that you will never tell what you have seen." Davy struggled to free himself, but his frantic efforts were useless. In Dan's grip he was held as in a vice. "Let me go, Mastha Dan," the lad cried. "Promise to hold your tongue," said Dan; "promise it, promise it." "Let me go, will you? let me go," the lad shouted sullenly. "Be quiet," said Dan. "I won't be quiet," was the stubborn answer. "Help! help! help!" and the lad screamed lustily. "Hold your tongue, or by G--" Dan held Davy by one of his great hands hitched into the lad's guernsey, and he lifted the other hand threateningly. "Help! help! help!" Davy screamed still louder, and struggled yet more fiercely, until his strength was spent, and his breath was gone, and then there was a moment's silence. The desolate place was still as desolate as before. Not a sign of life around; not an answering cry. "There's nobody to help you," said Dan. "You have got to promise never to tell what you have seen to man, woman, or child." "I won't promise, and I won't hould my tongue," said the lad, stoutly. "You are goin' to fight, you and Mastha Ewan, and--" Dan stopped him. "Hearken here. If you are to live another hour, you will promise--" But Davy had regained both strength and voice. "I don't care--help! help! help!" he shouted. Dan put his hand over the lad's mouth, and dragged him to the cliff head. Below was the brant steep, dark and jagged, and quivering in the deepening gloom, and the sea-birds were darting through the mid-air like bats in the dark. "Look," said Dan, "you've got to swear never to tell what you have seen to-night, so help you God!" The lad, held tightly by the breast and throat, and gripping the arms that held him with fingers that clung like claws, took one horrified glance down into the darkness. He struggled no longer. His face was very pitiful to see. "I can not promise," he said, in a voice like a cry. At that answer Dan drew Davy back from the cliff edge, and loosed his hold of him. He was abashed and ashamed. He felt himself a little man by the side of this half-daft fisher-lad. All this time Ewan had stood aside looking on while Dan demanded the promise, and saying nothing. Now he went up to Davy, and said, in a quiet voice: "Davy, if you should ever tell any one what you have seen, Dan will be a lost man all his life hereafter." "Then let him pitch me over the cliff," said Davy, in a smothered cry. "Listen to me, Davy," Ewan went on; "you're a brave lad, and I know what's in your head, but--" "Then what for do you want to fight him?" Davy broke out. The lad's throat was dry and husky, and his eyes were growing dim. Ewan paused. Half his passion was spent. Davy's poor dense head had found him a question that he could not answer.