elancholy minor (times and
again since that moment the tune has put me in mind of sea-birds
crying over a waste shore), I saw the shiver run across Captain
Coffin's face and neck, and with that his sight came back to him, and
he bounced upright from the settle, with a horrible scream, his hands
fencing, clawing at air.

The prisoner dropped back with a laugh. Mr. Goodfellow, at a choking
sound, put out a hand to loosen Captain Coffin's neckcloth; but the
old man beat him off.

"Not you! Not you! Harry!"

He gripped me by the arm, and, ducking his head, fairly charged me
past the 'longshoremen and out through the doorway into the street.
As we gained it I heard the stranger in the taproom behind me break
into a high, cackling laugh.

CHAPTER VIII.

THE HUNTED AND THE HUNTER.

All the drunkenness had gone out of Captain Danny. Gripping my arm,
he steered me rapidly through the knots of loafers, up Market Strand
into the crowded Fore Street, across it and up the hill towards open
country, taking the ascent with long strides which forced me now and
again into a run. Twice or thrice I glanced up at his face, for I
was scared, and badly scared. His mouth worked, and I observed small
beads of sweat on his shaven upper lip; but he kept his eyes fastened
straight ahead, and paid no heed to me.

At the head of the street the town melted off into a suburb of
scattered houses, modest domiciles of twenty-five pounds or thirty
pounds rentals, detached, each with its garden and narrow
garden-door, for Falmouth in those days boasted few carriage-folk.
He paused once hereabouts, in the roadway between two walls, and
stood listening, while his right hand trembled on his stick; but
presently gripped my arm again and hurried me forward, nor halted
until we reached the summit, and the open country lay before us, with
the Channel and its long horizon on our left. Here, in a cornfield
on the very knap of the hill, and some two hundred yards back from
the road, stood the shell of an old windmill, overlooking the sea--
deserted, ruinous, without sails, a building many hundreds of years
older than the oldest house in Falmouth, serving now but as a
landmark for fishermen, and on Sundays a rendezvous for courting
couples. At the stile leading into the cornfield, Captain Coffin
released me, climbed over, hurried up the footpath to the windmill,
and, having satisfied himself that the building was empty, motioned
me to seat m