boy, most likely, not of the poet's feigned Lycidas.

"He'll stand like that for hours," the coastguard went on
confidentially, "musing like to himself, with Miss Cleer by his side,
reading in her book or doing her knitting or something. But you
couldn't get him, for love or money, to go BELOW the cliffs, no, not
if you was to kill him. He's AFRAID of going below--that's where it
is; he always thinks something's sure to tumble from the top on him.
Natural enough, too, after all that's been. He likes to get as high as
ever he can in the air, where he can see all around him, and be
certain there ain't anyone above to let anything drop as might hurt
him. Michael's Crag's where he likes best to stand, on the top there
by the Horse; he always chooses them spots. In Malta it was San
Mickayly; and in Gibraltar it was the summit of Europa Point, by the
edge of the Twelve Apostles' battery."

"How curious!" Le Neve exclaimed. "It's just the other way on now,
with my friend Mr. Tyrrel. I'm stopping at Penmorgan, but Mr. Tyrrel
won't go on TOP of the cliffs for anything. He says he's afraid he
might let something drop by accident on the people below him."

The coastguard grew suddenly graver. "Like enough," he said, stroking
his chin. "Like enough; and right, too, for him, sir. You see, he's a
Tyrrel, and he's bound to be cautious.'

"Why so?" Le Neve asked, somewhat puzzled. "Why a Tyrrel more than the
rest of us?"

The man hesitated and stared hard at him.