on, with
shadowy face, broke out and feebly cast down a glimmering light. Below,
the outspread stretch of water lay dark and motionless, its glassy
surface cold and glittering like steel. Walking a little in the rear of
Adam, Eve shuddered as her eyes fell on the depths, over whose brink
the narrow path they trod seemed hanging. Instinctively she shrank
closer to the cliff-side, to be caught by the long trails of bramble
which, with bracken and gorse, made the steep descent a bristly wall.
Insensibly affected by external surroundings, unused to such complete
darkness, the sombre aspect of the scene filled her with nervous
apprehension: every bit of jutting rock she stumbled against was a
yawning precipice, and at each step she took she died some different
death. The terrors of her mind entirely absorbed all her former
indifference and ill-humor, and she would have gladly welcomed any
accident which would have afforded her a decent pretext for breaking
this horrible silence. But nothing occurred, and they reached the open
piece of green and were close on the crumbling ruins of St. Peter's
chapel without a word having passed between them. The moon struggled out
with greater effort, and, to Eve's relief, showed that the zigzag
dangers of the path were past, and there was now nothing worse to fear
than what might happen on any uneven grassy slope. Moreover, the buzz of
voices was near, and, though they could not see the persons speaking,
Eve knew by the sound that they could not be very far distant. Having
before him the peculiar want of reticence generally displayed by the
Polperro folk, Adam would have given much to have been in a position to
ask Eve to remount the hill and get down by the other side; but under
present circumstances he felt it impossible to make any suggestion:
things must take their course. And without a word of warning he and Eve
gained the summit of the raised elevation which formed a sheltered
background to this favorite loitering-place, at once to find themselves
the centre of observation to a group of men whose noisy discussion they
had apparently interrupted.

"Why, 'tis my son Adam, ain't it?" exclaimed the voice of Uncle Zebedee;
and at the sound of a little mingled hoarseness and thickness Adam's
heart sank within him.--"And who's this he's a got with un, eh?"

"Tis me, Uncle Zebedee," said Eve, stepping down on to the flat and
advancing toward where the old man stood lounging--"Eve, you know."