It was towards the close of an autumn day, that a tall young man was
seen surveying the barren rocks, and apparently deserted shores, near
the dwelling of the fisher. He wore the inquiring aspect of a
stranger, and yet his step indicated a previous acquaintance with the
scene. The sun was flinging his boldest radiance on the rolling ocean,
as the youth ascended the rugged path which led to the Warlock
Fisher's hut. He surveyed the door for a moment, as if to be certain
of the spot; and then, with one stroke of his foot, dashed the door
inwards. It was damp and tenantless. The stranger set down his bundle,
kindled a fire, and remained in quiet possession. In a few hours the
fisher returned. He started involuntarily at the sight of the
intruder, who sprang to his feet, ready for any alternative.

"What seek you in my hut?" said the Fisher.

"A shelter for the night--the hawks are out."

"Who directed you to me?"

"Old acquaintance!"

"Never saw you with my eyes--shiver me! But never mind, you look like
the breed--a ready hand and a light heel, ha! All's right--tap your
keg!"

No sooner said than done. The keg was broached, and a good brown basin
of double hollands was brimming at the lips of the Warlock Fisher. The
stranger did himself a similar service, and they grew friendly. The
fisher could not avoid placing his hand before his eyes once or twice,
as if wishful to avoid the keen gaze of the stranger, who still plied