CHAPTER I

THE ROCK

Early on a summer morning, about the beginning of the nineteenth
century, two fishermen of Forfarshire wended their way to the shore,
launched their boat, and put off to sea.

One of the men was tall and ill-favoured, the other, short and
well-favoured. Both were square-built, powerful fellows, like most
men of the class to which they belonged.

It was about that calm hour of the morning which precedes sunrise,
when most living creatures are still asleep, and inanimate nature
wears, more than at other times, the semblance of repose. The sea was
like a sheet of undulating glass. A breeze had been expected, but,
in defiance of expectation, it had not come, so the boatmen were
obliged to use their oars. They used them well, however, insomuch
that the land ere long appeared like a blue line on the horizon, then
became tremulous and indistinct, and finally vanished in the mists of
morning.

The men pulled "with a will,"--as seamen pithily express in silence.
Only once during the first hour did the ill-favoured man venture a
remark. Referring to the absence of wind, he said, that "it would be
a' the better for landin' on the rock."

This was said in the broadest vernacular dialect, as, indeed, was
everything that dropped from the fishermen's lips. We take the