th delight from the shore and sit entranced by
the scene before him, all oblivious of the rising ocean till he was
completely cut off from escape. No shout would reach the ear of man from
that desolate giant's chair in the rock.

Gilliatt steered his ship nearer to the cliff, and saw that the shadow
was a man. The sea was already high. The rock was encircled. Gilliatt
drew nearer. The man was asleep.

He was attired in black, and looked like a priest. Gilliatt had never
seen him before. The fisherman wore off, skirted the rock wall, and,
approaching so close to the dangerous cliff that by standing on the
gunwale of his sloop he could touch the foot of the sleeper, succeeded
in arousing him.

The man roused, and muttered, "I was looking about."

Gilliatt bade him jump into the boat. When he had landed this young
priest, who had a somewhat feminine cast of features, a clear eye, and a
grave manner, Gilliatt perceived that he was holding out a sovereign in
a very white hand. Gilliatt moved the hand gently away. There was a
pause. Then the young man bowed, and left him.

Gilliatt had forgotten all about this stranger, when a voice hailed him.
It was one of the inhabitants, driving by quickly.

"There is news, Gilliatt--at the Bravees."

"What is it?"

"I am too hurried to tell you the story. Go up to the house, and you
will learn."

The Bravees was the residence of a man named Lethierry. He had raised
himself to a position of wealth by starting the first steamboat between
Guernsey and the coast of Normandy; he called this vessel La Durande;
the natives, who prophesied evil of such a frightful invention, called
it the Devil's Boat. But the Durande went to and fro without disaster,
and Lethierry's gold increased. There was nothing in all the universe he
loved so much as this marvellous ship worked by steam. Next to the
Durande, he most loved his pretty niece Derouchette, who kept house for
him.

One day as Gilliatt was walking over the snow-covered roads,
Derouchette, who was ahead of him, had stopped for a moment, and
stooping down, had written something with her finger in the snow. When
the fisherman reached the place, he found that the mischievous little
creature had written his name there. Ever since that hour, in the almost
unbroken solitude of his life, Gilliatt had thought about Derouchette.

Now that he heard of news at the Bravees, the lonely man made his way to
Lethierry's house, which was the nest of