PROLOGUE

CHAPTER I

Trevorrick River was but a little stream to have frettedso deep a cleft between the hills as that which slopedfrom the main road of Tregols parish to the sea. Fromthe source to the engulfing sands was barely a mile, andthe twinkling waters, if full and fierce in winter, showeda summer fear of their own broad stepping-stones.Nevertheless the sharp declivities, the juttings of rock, eventhe shelves and crags and walls of Dark Head, had beenformed by the gnawing of this tiny but persistent flow.

The valley ran east and west. The sun, rising beyondSt. Cadic Mill, poured its noon warmth over Hemberand sank behind the sheltered plateau on which stoodthe old home of the Rosevears. The dying beams,however, could not reach the deep-set windows of Wastralls,for the crest of Dark Head reared itself between thefarmstead and the harsh threat of the Atlantic. Thehouse lay in a fold of land, hidden equally from thosewho moved upon the face of the waters, and those whomight be said, though their habitations were at a distance,to neighbour it. As a refuge in troublous times, theposition had its value, and there were indications thatthis shelf of rock had been, many centuries ago, thenest of some wild brood.

Upon their heels had followed as descendants orconquerors—the script is too nearly obliterated to beread—men who in their own strong person representedthe law. The gate-posts of Wastralls were crowned withthe egg-shaped stones which indicated that it was amanor-house, and that its owner had the right to dispensejustice. Within the house, and occupying a space fromwall to wall, was the ancient Justice Room; but its statelyuses had long been abated, its irrevocable decisions hadlost their force, in the autumn of its days it had becomea lumber-room and more lately a bedchamber.

A century ago, from the mill at the head of the valleyto the Wreckers' Hut on the foreshore, Trevorrick hadbeen the property of one man. Of peasant stock, howFreathy Rosevear came by land and money was matterof surmise. 'He had gone out one morning a poor man,and had come home rich.' Little need, however, toinvent tales of hidden treasure, witchcraft, divination,when the caves in Morwen Cove made so safe a store-house:when the Wreckers' Hut stood behind the teethof the Mad Rip: when the lanes that converged

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