the maiden; “your course is to the rising sun.”  “I go where I will,” replied Jean, nettled at this unlooked-for interruption.  “Youth,” answered the other, “I have watched thee and wish thee well! rush not heedlessly to certain death!” “Stay me not!” resolutely answered Jean, wondering at the interest taken in him by this strange being.  “Thou knowest not!” said the hermit sternly; “it is not only from death I wish to save thee, but from worse than death; I tell thee I—­” He checked himself, as if fearful of saying too much, and bent his eyes searchingly into those of Jean, who murmured simply, “I am resolved.”  “Then God help thee and speed thee!” said the giant.  Glancing into the boat he saw one of the curved and pierced shells then, as now, used by Guernsey seamen as signal-horns:  pointing to it he said, “If in peril, where a blast may be heard on Lihou, sound the horn twice:  it is a poor hope but may serve thee!” He was gone.

Jean paddled into the dreaded bay; the moon had now sunk and he was further favoured by a slight mist.  Knowing the tides from infancy, he worked his way noiselessly till he approached where the Voizin fleet lay, then laid himself down and let the current take him.  He passed several boats in safety; as far as he could judge, from the observations he had taken from Lihou, he was nearly past the anchorage when a crash, succeeded by a grating sound, warned him of danger.  A curse, followed by an ejaculation of surprise and pleasure, enlightened him as to the nature of the collision:  he was in contact with one of the anchored vessels.  “Odin is good!” cried a voice; “ha! a skiff drifted from a wrecked vessel! and all eyes but mine sleeping!” The speaker threw over a small anchor and grappled the boat.  Jean was prepared; without a moment’s hesitation he cut the anchor-rope:  his craft drifted onwards, leaving the fisherman grumbling at the rottenness of his tackle.  He offered a short prayer of gratitude, and in a few minutes ventured cautiously to resume his oars.  He heard the breaking of the waves, but seamanship on the unknown and indistinct coast was useless.  Two sharp blows, striking the boat in rapid succession, told him that he had touched a submerged rock; the strong tide carried him off it, but the water poured in through a gaping rent.  He was now, however, on a sandy bottom:  he sprang out, pulled the boat up as far as possible, and sat down to wait for light.

The first break of dawn showed him his position:  he was facing northward; he was therefore on the Hanois arm of the bay.  Fortune had indeed been kind to him, for he had drifted into a small cleft sheltered by precipitous rocks, a place where concealment was fairly possible, as it was accessible only by land at the lowest tides.  He examined his store of provisions, which was uninjured; storing it among the rocks he rested till the sun sank.  He then cautiously climbed the cliff, and looked on the scene revealed by the moonlight.  Seawards stood a rough round