Our hero was about to speak to the prophetess, when a voice, hoarse as the waves with which it mingled, hallooed twice, and with increasing impatience—­’Meg, Meg Merrilies!  Gipsy—­hag—­ tausend deyvils!’

‘I am coming, I am coming, Captain,’ answered Meg; and in a moment or two the impatient commander whom she addressed made his appearance from the broken part of the ruins.

He was apparently a seafaring man, rather under the middle size, and with a countenance bronzed by a thousand conflicts with the north-east wind.  His frame was prodigiously muscular, strong, and thick-set; so that it seemed as if a man of much greater height would have been an inadequate match in any close personal conflict.  He was hard-favoured, and, which was worse, his face bore nothing of the insouciance, the careless, frolicsome jollity and vacant curiosity, of a sailor on shore.  These qualities, perhaps, as much as any others, contribute to the high popularity of our seamen, and the general good inclination which our society expresses towards them.  Their gallantry, courage, and hardihood are qualities which excite reverence, and perhaps rather humble pacific landsmen in their presence; and neither respect nor a sense of humiliation are feelings easily combined with a familiar fondness towards those who inspire them.  But the boyish frolics, the exulting high spirits, the unreflecting mirth of a sailor when enjoying himself on shore, temper the more formidable points of his character.  There was nothing like these in this man’s face; on the contrary, a surly and even savage scowl appeared to darken features which would have been harsh and unpleasant under any expression or modification.  ‘Where are you, Mother Deyvilson?’ he said, with somewhat of a foreign accent, though speaking perfectly good English.  ’Donner and blitzen! we have been staying this half-hour.  Come, bless the good ship and the voyage, and be cursed to ye for a hag of Satan!’

At this moment he noticed Mannering, who, from the position which he had taken to watch Meg Merrilies’s incantations, had the appearance of some one who was concealing himself, being half hidden by the buttress behind which he stood.  The Captain, for such he styled himself, made a sudden and startled pause, and thrust his right hand into his bosom between his jacket and waistcoat as if to draw some weapon.  ’What cheer, brother? you seem on the outlook, eh?’ Ere Mannering, somewhat struck by the man’s gesture and insolent tone of voice, had made any answer, the gipsy emerged from her vault and joined the stranger.  He questioned her in an undertone, looking at Mannering—­’A shark alongside, eh?’

She answered in the same tone of under-dialogue, using the cant language of her tribe—­’Cut ben whids, and stow them; a gentry cove of the ken.’ [Footnote:  Meaning—­Stop your uncivil language; that is a gentleman from the house below.]

The fellow’s cloudy visage cleared up.  ’The top of the morning to you, sir; I find you are a visitor of my friend Mr. Bertram.  I beg pardon, but I took you for another sort of a person.’