It was towards the close of an autumn day, that a tall young man was seen surveying the barren rocks, and apparently deserted shores, near the dwelling of the fisher.  He wore the inquiring aspect of a stranger, and yet his step indicated a previous acquaintance with the scene.  The sun was flinging his boldest radiance on the rolling ocean, as the youth ascended the rugged path which led to the Warlock Fisher’s hut.  He surveyed the door for a moment, as if to be certain of the spot; and then, with one stroke of his foot, dashed the door inwards.  It was damp and tenantless.  The stranger set down his bundle, kindled a fire, and remained in quiet possession.  In a few hours the fisher returned.  He started involuntarily at the sight of the intruder, who sprang to his feet, ready for any alternative.

“What seek you in my hut?” said the Fisher.

“A shelter for the night—­the hawks are out.”

“Who directed you to me?”

“Old acquaintance!”

“Never saw you with my eyes—­shiver me!  But never mind, you look like the breed—­a ready hand and a light heel, ha!  All’s right—­tap your keg!”

No sooner said than done.  The keg was broached, and a good brown basin of double hollands was brimming at the lips of the Warlock Fisher.  The stranger did himself a similar service, and they grew friendly.  The fisher could not avoid placing his hand before his eyes once or twice, as if wishful to avoid the keen gaze of the stranger, who still plied the fire with fuel and his host with hollands.  Reserve was at length annihilated, and the fisher jocularly said—­

“Well, and so we’re old acquaintance, ha?”

“Ay,” said the young man, with another searching glance.  “I was in doubt at first, but now I’m certain.”

“And what’s to be done?” said the Fisher.

“An hour after midnight you must put me on board -----’s boat, she’ll
be abroad.  They’ll run a light to the masthead, for which you’ll
steer.  You’re a good hand at the helm in a dark night and a rough
sea,” was the reply.

“How, if I will not?”

“Then—­your life or mine!"

They sprang to their feet simultaneously, and an immediate encounter seemed inevitable.

“Psha!” said the Fisher, sinking on his seat, “what madness this is!  I was a thought warm with the liquor, and the recollections of past times were rising on my memory.  Think nothing of it.  I heard those words once before,” and he ground his teeth in rage—­“Yes, once—­but in a shriller voice than your’s!  Sometimes, too, the bastard rises to my view; and then I smite him so—­bah! give us another basin-full!” He stuck short at vacancy, snatched the beverage from the stranger, and drank it off.  “An hour after midnight, said ye?”

“Ay—­you’ll see no bastards then!”

“Worse—­may be—­worse!” muttered the Fisher, sinking into abstraction, and glaring wildly on the flickering embers before him.