Part 6 (1/2)

In a far-away time Tristram Bird of Padstow bought a gun at a little shop in the quaint old market which in those days opened to the quay, the winding river, and the St. Minver sand-hills. When he had bought his gun he began forthwith to shoot birds and other poor little creatures.

After a while he grew more ambitious, and told the fair young maids of Padstow that he wanted to shoot a seal or something more worthy of his gun; and so one bright morning he made his way down to Hawker's Cove, near the mouth of the harbour.

When Tristram got there he looked about him to see what he could shoot, and the first thing he saw was a young maid sitting all alone on a rock, combing her hair with a sea-green comb.

He was so overcome at such an unexpected sight that he quite forgot what had brought him to the cove, and could do nothing but stare.

The rock on which the maiden sat was covered with seaweed, and surrounded by a big pool, called in that distant time the Mermaid's Gla.s.s.

She was apparently unconscious that a good-looking young man was gazing at her with his bold dark eyes, and as she combed her long and beautiful hair she leaned over the pool and looked at herself in the Mermaid's Gla.s.s, and the face reflected in it was startling in its beauty and charm.

Tristram Bird was very tall--six feet three in his stockings--and being such a tall young man, he could see over the maiden's head into the pool, and the face in its setting of golden hair reflected in its clear depths entirely bewitched him, and so did her graceful form, which was partly veiled in a golden raiment of her own beautiful hair.

As he stood gazing at the bewitching face looking up from the Mermaid's Gla.s.s, its owner suddenly glanced over her shoulder, and saw Tristram staring at her.

'Good-morning to you, fair maid,' he said, still keeping his bold dark eyes fixed upon her, telling himself as he gazed that her face was even more bewitching than was its reflection.

'Good-morning, sir,' said she.

'Doing your toilet out in the open,' he said.

'Yes,' quoth she, wondering who the handsome youth could be and how he came to be there.

'Your hair is worth combing,' he said.

'Is it?' said she.

'It is, my dear,' he said. ''Tis the colour of oats waiting for the sickle.'

'Is it?' quoth she.

'Yes; and no prettier face ever looked into the Mermaid's Gla.s.s.'

'How do you know?' asked she.

'My heart told me so,' he said, coming a step or two nearer the pool, 'and so did my eyes when I saw its reflection looking up from the water. It bewitched me, sweet.'

'Did it?' laughed she, with a tilt of her round young chin.

'Yes,' he said, with an answering laugh, drawing another step nearer the pool.

'It does not take a man of your breed long to fall in love,' said the beautiful maid, with a toss of her golden head and a curl of her sweet red lips.

'Who told you that?' asked the love-sick young man, going red as a poppy.

'Faces carry tales as well as little birds,' quoth she.

'If my face is a tale-bearer, it will tell you that I love you more than heart can say and tongue can tell,' he said, drawing yet nearer the pool.

'Will it?' said she, combing her golden hair with her sea-green comb.