liance, and she
comforted herself with the knowledge that the brandy lay buried far down
in the shaft, and that it would take the boatsmen some time to dig to
it--that possibly they might give up in despair before reaching it.

While the men went off to search for the shaft, and while Mrs Maggot
was calmly nursing her spirited little baby, Maggot himself, in company
with his bosom friend John Cock, was sauntering slowly homeward along
the cliffs near Kenidjack Castle, the ruins of which occupy a bold
promontory a little to the north of Cape Cornwall. They had just come
in sight of the tin-mine and works which cover Nancharrow valley from
the shore to a considerable distance inland, where stand the tall
chimneys and engine-houses, the whims and varied machinery of the
extensive and prolific old tin-mine named Wheal Owles.

The cliffs on which the two men stood are very precipitous and rugged--
rising in some places to a height of about 300 feet above the rocks
where the waters of the Atlantic roll dark and deep, fringing the coast
with a milky foam that is carried away by the tide in long streaks, to
be defiled by the red waters which flow from Nancharrow valley into
Porth Ledden Cove.

This cove is a small one, with a narrow strip of sand on its shore. At
its northern extremity is a deep narrow gorge, into which the waves
rush, even in calm weather, with a peculiar sound. In reference to this
it is said that the waves "buzz-and-go-in," hence the place has been
named Zawn Buzzangein. The sides of the Zawn are about sixty feet high,
and quite precipitous. In one part, especially, they overhang their
base. It was here that Maggot and his friend stopped on their way home,
and turned to look out upon the sea.

"No sign o' pilchers yet," observed Maggot, referring to the immense
shoals of pilchards which visit the Cornish coasts in the autumn of each
year, and form a large portion of the wealth of the county.

"Too soon," replied John Cock.

"By the way, Jack," said Maggot, "wasn't it hereabouts that the schooner
went ashore last winter?"

"Iss, 'twor down theer, close by Pullandeese," replied the other,
pointing to a deep pool in the rocks round which the swell of the
Atlantic broke in white foam. "I was theere myself. I had come down
'bout daylight--before others were stirring, an' sure 'nuff there she
lay, on the rocks, bottom up, an' all the crew lost. We seed wan o'
them knackin' on the rocks to the nort