“I’m not so sure—­queer beggar; I never look at him without thinking of a pirate.”

The cutter lay in the cove as if she had never moved.  There too was Zachary Pearse seated on the edge of his dinghy.

“A five-knot breeze,” he said, “I’ll run you down in a couple of hours.”  He made no inquiry about Pasiance, but put us into his cockleshell and pulled for the cutter.  A lantern-Jawed fellow, named Prawle, with a spiky, prominent beard, long, clean-shaven upper lip, and tanned complexion—­a regular hard-weather bird—­received us.

The cutter was beautifully clean; built for a Brixham trawler, she still had her number—­DH 113—­uneffaced.  We dived into a sort of cabin, airy, but dark, fitted with two bunks and a small table, on which stood some bottles of stout; there were lockers, too, and pegs for clothes.  Prawle, who showed us round, seemed very proud of a steam contrivance for hoisting sails.  It was some minutes before we came on deck again; and there, in the dinghy, being pulled towards the cutter, sat Pasiance.

“If I’d known this,” stammered Dan, getting red, “I wouldn’t have come.”  She had outwitted us, and there was nothing to be done.

It was a very pleasant sail.  The breeze was light from the south-east, the sun warm, the air soft.  Presently Pasiance began singing: 

“Columbus is dead and laid in his grave, Oh! heigh-ho! and laid in his grave; Over his head the apple-trees wave Oh! heigh-ho! the apple-trees wave....

“The apples are ripe and ready to fall, Oh! heigh-ho! and ready to fall; There came an old woman and gathered them all, Oh! heigh-ho! and gathered them all....

“The apples are gathered, and laid on the shelf, Oh! heigh-ho! and laid on the shelf; If you want any more, you must sing for yourself, Oh! heigh-ho! and sing for yourself.”

Her small, high voice came to us in trills and spurts, as the wind let it, like the singing of a skylark lost in the sky.  Pearse went up to her and whispered something.  I caught a glimpse of her face like a startled wild creature’s; shrinking, tossing her hair, laughing, all in the same breath.  She wouldn’t sing again, but crouched in the bows with her chin on her hands, and the sun falling on one cheek, round, velvety, red as a peach....

We passed Dartmouth, and half an hour later put into a little wooded bay.  On a low reddish cliff was a house hedged round by pine-trees.  A bit of broken jetty ran out from the bottom of the cliff.  We hooked on to this, and landed.  An ancient, fish-like man came slouching down and took charge of the cutter.  Pearse led us towards the house, Pasiance following mortally shy all of a sudden.

The house had a dark, overhanging thatch of the rush reeds that grow in the marshes hereabouts; I remember nothing else remarkable.  It was neither old, nor new; neither beautiful, nor exactly ugly; neither clean, nor entirely squalid; it perched there with all its windows over the sea, turning its back contemptuously on the land.