led with a human voice, the desolation of all the earth seemed
here. And yet the old man must push on--up, up, as though he would
touch the very sky.

"The Lord be good to me," cried Peter Bligh, at last; "I can go no
farther if it's a million a mile! Oh, Mister Begg, for the love of God,
clap a rope about the wild man's legs."

I pushed him on over a sloping peak of shale, and told him to hold his
tongue.

"Will you lie in the pool, then? Where's your courage, man? Another
hundred yards and you shall stop to breathe. There's the old lion
himself waiting for us, and a big bill of thanks he has against us, to
be sure."

I said no more, but climbed the steep to the Frenchman's side, and
found him waiting on the bank of that which seemed to be a great
cup-like hole, black and bottomless and the last place you'd have
picked for a camp on all the hillside. Dolly Venn was already there,
and Seth Barker, lying on the stones and panting like a great dog.
Old Clair-de-Lune alone was fresh and ready, and able in his broken
English to tell us what he wished.

"Messieurs," he said, "speak not long but go down. I myself am shipmate
too. Ah, messieurs, you do wise to follow me. Down there no dog bark. I
show you the ladder, and all be well. To-morrow you speak your ship--go
home. For me, never again--I die here with the children, messieurs;
none shall come for old Clair-de-Lune, none, never at no time--but you,
you I save for the shipmates' sake----"

It was odd talk, but no time to argue about it. I saw a ladder thrust
up out of the pit, and when the old man went down I followed without
hesitation. A lantern lighted in the darkness showed me a hollow nest
20 feet deep, perhaps, and carpeted over with big brown leaves and rugs
spread out; and in one corner that which was not unlike a bed.
Moreover, there was a little stove in the place and upon one side an
awning stretched against the rain; while cooking pots and pans and
other little things made it plain at a glance that this was the man's
own refuge in the mountains, and that here, at least, some part of his
life was spent. No further witness to his honesty could be asked for.
He had brought us to his own home. It was time to speak of thanks.

"What you've done for us neither me nor mine will ever forget," said I,
warmly. "Here's a seaman's hand and a seaman's thanks. Should the day
come when we can do a like turn to you, be sure I'll be glad to hear of
it; and if it came