ed over to the breeze, and
the white foam came rustling over the prow, Sybella swept her fair
hand through the water, and bathed her brow with the action of one who
dismissed all painful thought, and gave herself to the full enjoyment of
the hour. Yes, my dear reader, the companionship of such a girl on
such a day, in such a scene, was worth having; and so even those rude
fishermen thought it, as, stretched at full length on the shingle
ballast, they gazed half bashfully at her, and then exchanged more
meaning looks with each other as she talked with them.

[Illustration: 198]

Just possible it is, too, that some curiosity may exist as to what
became of Mr. Hankes. Did that great projector of industrial enterprise
succeed in retracing his steps with safety? Did he fall in with some one
able to guide him back to Glengariff? Did he regain the Hermitage after
fatigue and peril, and much self-reproach for an undertaking so foreign
to his ways and habits; and did he vow to his own heart that this was to
be the last of such excursions on his part? Had he his misgivings, too,
that his conduct had not been perfectly heroic; and did he experience a
sense of shame in retiring before a peril braved by a young and delicate
girl? Admitted to a certain share of that gentleman's confidence, we are
obliged to declare that his chief sorrows were occasioned by the loss
of time, the amount of inconvenience, and the degree of fatigue the
expedition had caused him. It was not till late in the afternoon of the
day that he chanced upon a fisherman on his way to Bantry to sell his
fish. The poor peasant could not speak nor understand English, and after
a vain attempt at explanation on either side, the colloquy ended by
Hankes joining company with the man, and proceeding along with him,
whither he knew not.

If we have not traced the steps of Sybella's wanderings, we are little
disposed to linger along with those of Mr. Hankes, though, if his own
account were to be accepted, his journey was a succession of adventures
and escapes. Enough if we say that he at last abandoned his horse amid
the fissured cliffs of the coast, and, as best he might, clambered over
rock and precipice, through tall mazes of wet fern and deep moss, along
shingly shores and sandy beaches, till he reached the little inn at
Bantry, the weariest and most worn-out of men, his clothes in rags,
his shoes in tatters, and he himself scarcely conscious, and utterly
indifferent