“Then the spirits about here are all bad, are they?  I suppose to make up for the goodness and the beauty of the mortals, eh?”

“Nay, they are not all bad, Sir,” continued the young girl, gravely; “the Spriggans, who guard the buried treasures of the giants, have often helped a poor man out of their store; or, at least, ’tis said so.”

“And the giants—­are they all dead?”

“Yes, indeed, Sir, long ago,” answered the damsel; “though that they lived here once is true enough.  There’s Bonza’s Chair, you must have passed before the fog came on, and could not but have noticed; and the hurling-stones he used to throw for pastime with his brother, they are to be seen still; but all that about his having such long arms that he could snatch the sailors from the decks of ships as they went by, is, in my judgment, but an old wife’s tale, and I don’t credit it.  There, see, Sir; the fog is thinning; that is the castle yonder.  When you see it thus in air it is a sign of storm.”

The mist, instead of lifting, was growing less dense above, as it melted before the rays of the sun, and the ruin which Richard had seen from the hill-range was now once more visible, without the pedestal of rock on which it was placed.  It was a glorious sight, though weird and spectral, and the young painter halted in mute admiration.  The scene seemed scarcely of the earth at all.

“Most folks are pleased with that when they first see it,” remarked his companion, with the flattered air of one who exhibits some wonder of his own to a well-pleased stranger.  “You are very lucky, Sir; it is not often one gets so good a view.”

“I am lucky, too, in having so fair a guide to show it me,” said Richard, gallantly.  “There is a church in air too:  what is that?”

“That is Gethin church, Sir.  It stands all by itself, a mile from the village; but folks say that the tower was first built for a landmark for the ships, and that the church and church-yard were added afterward.”

“Then people die here, do they, even in this land of dreams?” said Richard, half to himself.

“Die, Sir?  Oh yes,” answered the young girl, sadly; “my own mother died two years ago, and lies buried there in yonder lonesome place.  But it is not usual for Gethin folks to die so young, except by shipwreck.”

“Are there many wrecks here, then?”

“Yes, Sir, and will be to all time; our church-yard is half full of drowned men.  On the nights before storm, up yonder, you may hear them calling out each other’s names.”

“Have you ever heard them?”

“Not I, Sir, thanks be to Heaven.  I would not venture there at night for the best cargo that ever came to Turlock.”

“Where is Turlock?”

“The port there behind us, Sir; you can see the houses now, but not the harbor.  It winds beneath the cliff, so that a ship can scarcely make it, save in smooth weather, though, when it once does so, it is safe enough.  To see the great green waves rush in and turn, and turn, and waste themselves in their wild fury, as though they searched for it in anger—­ah! it’s an awful sight.”