ecomes so broken
and stormy in these parts, as to render the sustenance derived from
fishing extremely precarious. Against this, however, the Warlock
Fisher was provided; for, caring little for weather, and apparently
less for life, he went out in all seasons, and was known to be absent
for days, during the most violent storms, when every hope of seeing
him again was lost. Still nothing harmed him: he came drifting back
again, the same wayward, unfearing, unhallowed animal. To account for
this, it was understood that he was in connexion with smugglers; that
his days of absence were spent in their service--in reconnoitring for
their safety, and assisting their predations. Whatever of truth there
might be in this, it was well known that the Warlock Fisher never
wanted ardent spirits; and so free was he in their use and of tobacco,
that he has been heard, in a long and dreary winter's evening,
carolling songs in a strange tongue, with all the fervour of an
inspired bacchanal. It has been said, too, at such times he held
strange talk with some who never answered, deprecated sights which no
one else could see, and exhibited the fury of an outrageous maniac.

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