Still there was no wind; but dark clouds had begun to rise on the seaward horizon.

The sudden change in the appearance of the rock after the last torches were extinguished was very striking.  For a few seconds there seemed to be no light at all.  The darkness of a coal mine appeared to have settled down on the scene.  But this soon passed away, as the men’s eyes became accustomed to the change, and then the dark loom of the advancing billows, the pale light of the flashing foam, and occasional gleams of phosphorescence, and glimpses of black rocks in the midst of all, took the place of the warm, busy scene which the spot had presented a few minutes before.

“Supper, boys!” shouted Bremner.

Peter Bremner, we may remark in passing, was a particularly useful member of society.  Besides being small and corpulent, he was a capital cook.  He had acted during his busy life both as a groom and a house-servant; he had been a soldier, a sutler, a writer’s clerk, and an apothecary—­in which latter profession he had acquired the art of writing and suggesting recipes, and a taste for making collections in natural history.  He was very partial to the use of the lancet, and quite a terrible adept at tooth-drawing.  In short, Peter was the factotum of the beacon house, where, in addition to his other offices, he filled those of barber and steward to the admiration of all.

But Bremner came out in quite a new and valuable light after he went to reside in the beacon—­namely, as a storyteller.  During the long periods of inaction that ensued, when the men were imprisoned there by storms, he lightened many an hour that would have otherwise hung heavily on their hands, and he cheered the more timid among them by speaking lightly of the danger of their position.

On the signal for supper being given, there was a general rush down the ladders into the kitchen, where as comfortable a meal as one could wish for was smoking in pot and pan and platter.

As there were twenty-three to partake, it was impossible, of course, for all to sit down to table.  They were obliged to stow themselves away on such articles of furniture as came most readily to hand, and eat as they best could.  Hungry men find no difficulty in doing this.  For some time the conversation was restricted to a word or two.  Soon, however, as appetite began to be appeased, tongues began to loosen.  The silence was first broken by a groan.

“Ochone!” exclaimed O’Connor, as well as a mouthful of pork and potatoes would allow him; “was it you that groaned like a dyin’ pig?”

The question was put to Forsyth, who was holding his head between his hands, and swaying his body to and fro in agony.

“Hae ye the oolic, freen’?” enquired John Watt, in a tone of sympathy.

“No—­n—­o,” groaned Forsyth, “it’s a—­a—­to—­tooth!”

“Och! is that all?”

“Have it out, man, at once.”