and blasphemy. They were still shouting their loudest,
when the vengeance of Heaven descended in judgment on them all.

The clouds supernaturally gathered, the wind rose to a gale in a moment.
An immense sea, higher than any man had ever beheld, overwhelmed the
ship; and, to the horror of the people on shore, she went down in an
instant, close to land. Of all the crew, the pilot only was saved.

The bells were never recovered. They were heard tolling a muffled
death-peal, as they sank with the ship; and even yet, on stormy days,
while the great waves roll over them, they still ring their ghostly
knell above the fiercest roaring of wind and sea.

This is the ancient story of the bells--this is why the chimes are never
heard from the belfry of Forrabury Church.

* * * * *

Now that we have visited the scene of our third legend, what is it that
keeps me and my companion still lingering on the downs? Why we are still
delaying the hour of our departure long after the time which we have
ourselves appointed for it?

We both know but too well. At this point we leave the coast, not to
return to it again: at Forrabury we look our last on the sea from these
rocky shores. With this evening, our pleasant days of strolling travel
are ended. To-morrow we go direct to Launceston, and from Launceston at
once to Plymouth. To-morrow the adventures of the walking tourist are
ours no longer; for on that day our rambles in Cornwall will have
virtually closed!

Rise, brother-traveller! We have lingered until twilight already; the
seaward crags grow vast and dim around us, and the inland view narrows
and darkens solemnly in the waning light. Shut up your sketch-book which
you have so industriously filled, and pocket your pencils which you have
worn down to stumps, even as I now shut up my dogs-eared old journal,
and pocket my empty ink-bottle. One more of the few and fleeting scenes
of life is fast closing, soon to leave us nothing but the remembrance
that it once existed--a happy remembrance of a holiday walk in dear old
England, which will always be welcome and vivid to the last, like other
remembrances of home.

Come! the night is drawing round us her curtain of mist; let us strap on
our trusty old friends, the knapsacks for the last time, and turn
resolutely from the shore by which we have delayed too long. Come! let
us once again "jog on the footpath way" as contentedly, if not quite as
merrily, as