Part 91 (1/2)

”No, no,” he groaned; ”I dare not.”

”And you that cold and hungry?”

”I've tasted nothing but the limpets since that night.”

”Limpets!” she cried, with a tone of contempt in her voice, ”why they ain't even good for bait. And there are no mussels here. Look here, my dear lad, I've got a lobster. No, no; it's raw. Look here; you go back to where you hide, and I'll go and get you something to eat, and be back as soon as I can.”

”You will?” he said pitifully.

”Course I will.”

”And you'll keep my secret?”

”Now don't you say that again, my lad, because it aggravates me. There, you go back and wait, and if I don't come again this side of ten o'clock Poll Perrow's dead!”

She bent down, kissed his cold forehead, and hurried back among the rocks, splas.h.i.+ng and climbing, till he saw her begin to ascend the narrow rift in the cliff; and in a few minutes the square basket, which looked like some strange crustacean of monstrous size creeping out of the sea and up the rocks, disappeared in the gathering gloom; and Harry Vine, half-delirious from hunger, crept slowly back into the cave, half wondering whether it was not all a dream.

CHAPTER FORTY SIX.

THE FRIEND OF ADVERSITY.

It was a dream from which he was aroused three hours later--a wild dream of a banquet served in barbaric splendour, but whose viands seemed to be s.n.a.t.c.hed from his grasp each time he tried to satisfy the pangs which seemed to gnaw him within. He had fallen into a deep sleep, in which he had remained conscious of his hunger, though in perfect ignorance of what had taken place around.

His first thought was of capture, for his head was clear now, and he saw a rough hand as he gazed up wildly at a dim horn lantern.

The dread was but momentary, for a rough voice full of sympathy said:--

”There, that's right. Sit up, my dear, and keep the blankets round you.

They're only wet at one corner. I did that bringing them in. There, drink that!”

He s.n.a.t.c.hed at the bottle held to him, and drank with avidity till it was drawn away.

”That'll put some life into you, my dear; it's milk, and brandy too.

Now eat that. It's only bread and hake, but it was all I could manage now. To-morrow I'll bring you something better, or I'll know the reason why.”

Grilled fish still warm, and pleasant home-made bread. It was a feast to the starving man; and he sat there with a couple of blankets sending warmth into his chilled limbs, while the old fish-woman sat and talked after she had placed the lantern upon the sand.

”Let them go on thinking so,” said Harry at last. ”Better that I should be dead to every one I know.”

”Now, Master Harry, don't you talk like that. You don't know what may happen next. You're talking in the dark now. When you wake up in the suns.h.i.+ne to-morrow morning you'll think quite different to this.”

”No,” he said, ”I must go right away; but I shall stay in hiding here for a few days first. Will you bring me a little food from time to times unknown to any one?”

”Why of course I will, dear lad. But why don't you put on your pea-jacket and weskit. They is dry now.”

Harry shuddered as he glanced at the rough garments the woman was turning over.

”Throw them here on the dry sand,” he said hastily. ”I don't want them now.”

”There you are then, dear lad,” said the old woman, spreading out the drowned man's clothes; ”p'r'aps they are a bit damp yet. And now I must go. There's what's left in the bottle, and there's a fried mack'rel and the rest of the loaf. That'll keep you from starving, and to-morrow night I'll see if I can't bring you something better.”