weather came, and all day long the spray flew over the cottages and the
cold breeze covered the sand with foam. The waters roared drearily, and
the nights were bad enough to prevent the most inveterate poacher from
turning out. During the daytime Lance and Roughit would lounge on the
rock-tops, and look grimly out at the horizon, where the grey clouds
laid their shoulders to the sea. Their companionship was much like that
of lower animals: it was quite sufficient for one to know that the other
was near. They did once separate for a short time, Roughit shipped in a
merchant brig that was going round to Plymouth. The vessel made the run
in about a week; but Roughit felt very wretched during the whole time,
without knowing exactly why. At Plymouth he deserted, leaving his box
behind him, and set off on foot northwards.

One evening Lance was sitting sulkily on the ground, when he saw a man
crossing the moor. A vague curiosity caused him to walk out to meet the
stranger, and presently Roughit came up looking very dirty, and wearing
only an old sleeved waistcoat and a ragged pair of canvas trousers. He
was barefooted too, and limped a good deal. The two men simply nodded
and turned back to the village together. Neither of them asked any
questions, but they sat drinking until a late hour, and went home less
steadily than might have been wished. The people in the Row took but
little notice of this eccentric couple; for, after all, the friends did
harm to nothing except the Squire's ground-game.

When the two men were growing grizzled with advancing years the coble
which belonged to them had gone away from the fishing-ground one black
night, before a strong north-easterly gale: she shot between the Great
Farne Island and the Bird's Rock. The tide was going like a millrace,
and the solemn roar of the vast stream made very terrible music in the
dark. The men might have got into their own haven by an easy passage,