“Then,” said the rector of Kilkhampton, “I shall go to Bude, and see to the lifeboat there being brought out.”

“Do as you like; but mark my words, no good comes of turning to the west.  Why,” said he, “in the primitive church they turned to the west to renounce the Devil.”

His carriage came to the door, and he drove off with Mr. Valentine as fast as his horses could spin him along the hilly, wretched roads.

Before he reached Clovelly, a boat had put off with the mate from the ship, which was the Margaret Quail, laden with salt.  The captain would not leave the vessel; for, till deserted by him, no salvage could be claimed.  The mate was picked up on the way, and the three reached Clovelly.

Down the street proceeded the following procession—­the street of Clovelly being a flight of stairs:—­

First, the vicar of Morwenstow in a claret-colored coat, with long tails flying in the gale, blue knitted jersey, and pilot-boots, his long silver locks fluttering about his head.  He was appealing to the fishermen and sailors of Clovelly to put out in their lifeboat to rescue the crew of the Margaret Quail.  The men stood sulky, lounging about with folded arms, or hands in their pockets, and sou’-westers slouched over their brows.  The women were screaming at the tops of their voices that they would not have their husbands and sons and sweethearts enticed away to risk their lives to save wrecked men.  Above the clamor of their shrill tongues and the sough of the wind rose the roar of the vicar’s voice:  he was convulsed with indignation, and poured forth the most sacred appeals to their compassion for drowning sailors.

Second in the procession moved the Rev. W. Valentine, with purse full of gold in his hand, offering any amount of money to the Clovelly men, if they would only go forth in the lifeboat to the wreck.

Third came the mate of the Margaret Quail, restrained by no consideration of cloth, swearing and damning right and left, in a towering rage at the cowardice of the Clovelly men.

Fourth came John, the servant of Mr. Hawker, with bottles of whisky under his arm, another inducement to the men to relent and be merciful to their imperiled brethren.

The first appeal was to their love of heaven and to their humanity; the second was to their pockets, their love of gold; the third to their terrors, their fear of Satan, to whom they were consigned; and the fourth to their stomachs, their love of grog.

But all appeals were in vain.  Then Mr. Hawker returned to his carriage, and drove away farther east to Appledore, where he secured the lifeboat.  It was mounted on a wagon; ten horses were harnessed to it; and as fast as possible it was conveyed to the scene of distress.

But in the mean while the captain of the Margaret Quail, despairing of help and thinking that his vessel would break up under him, came off in his boat with the rest of the crew, trusting rather to a rotten boat, patched with canvas which they had tarred over, than to the tender mercies of the covetous Clovellites, in whose veins ran the too recent blood of wreckers.  The only living being left on board was a poor dog.