Catherine had herself performed the office of humanity she had so vainly asked of the stranger; she stooped down, and beckoning to her father and Harriet, who were descending the rocks, to hasten their steps, she raised up the painter's head, and endeavoured, with a faltering hand, to loosen the neckcloth from his throat. Struck by expressions so rude and unfeeling, she looked up for a moment, and for the first time took hasty note of the person and lineaments of her preserver. He was a man of middle age,--perhaps forty or more, with a long shirt or frock of coarse linen thrown over his other garments, and a broad-brimmed, round-crowned, slouching hat, like the favourite _sombrero_ of the Spanish islands, which was, however, painted of a fiery red, and varnished, so as to resist the rain. His stature was not considerable, nor was his appearance very muscular, yet he had given proof of no mean strength in the ease with which he dragged the painter and herself from the water. His countenance, without being coarse or ugly, had yet a repulsive character, derived in part from several scars, the marks of violent blows from sabres or other weapons, one of which seemed to have destroyed his right eye, for it was bound round with a handkerchief; but perhaps the forbidden air was rather given by the savage fire that glimmered in the other, and the perpetual frown that contracted his brows. His hair was grizzled, and fell in a long lock over either dark and bony cheek. His mouth was particularly stern, grim, menacing, and even malevolent of character,--or so the Captain's daughter thought. All these things Catherine observed in a moment; yet, however unfavourably impressed by them, she could not refrain from again imploring his assistance, saying, with the most earnest accents, "If you be a Christian man, do not leave us. We are none here but two feeble women, and an infirm old man; and before we can procure assistance, the young gentleman may perish. We will thank you,--we will reward"---- "Good heavens!" cried Miss Falconer, who had now reached the foot of the rocks, and beheld the pale and bleeding visage that Catherine so falteringly supported, "he is dying!" "Dying! Who's dying?" echoed the Captain, limping up to the group; "Adzooks; what! my painter? my handsome young dog, that was to paint me my son Tom Loring? my Harman What-d'ye-call-it from Elsie Bell's? Hark ye, Mr. Red-hat, or whatever your name is, I intended to arrest you on suspicion----Adzooks, I believe the young dog's dead! He looks amazingly like my son Tom. Hark ye, Mr. Harmer What-d'ye-call-it, how do you feel? Why, adzooks, he's clean gone!--Hark ye, Mister Red-head, fetch him up the rocks----We'll carry him to the Folly."