visiting saints rode along the sea-shore to St. Piran's
small hut.

Here the door stood open: but the hut was empty. A meagre breakfast of
herbs was set out on the table, and a brand new scourge lay somewhat
ostentatiously beside the platter. The visitors stood nonplussed,
looked at each other, then eyed the landscape. Between barren sea
and barren downs the beach stretched away, with not a human shape in
sight. St. Petroc, choking with impotent wrath, appeared to study the
hollow green breakers from between the long ears of his mule, but with
quick sidelong glances right and left, ready to jump down the throat
of the first saint that dared to smile.

After a minute or so St. Enodar suddenly turned his face inland, and
held up a finger.

"Hark!" he shouted above the roar of the sea.

"What is it?"

"It sounds to me," said St. Petroc, after listening for some moments
with his head on one side, "it sounds to me like a hymn."

"To be sure 'tis a hymn," said St. Enodar, "and the tune is 'Mullyon,'
for a crown." And he pursed up his lips and followed the chant,
beating time with his forefinger--

_When, like a thief, the Midianite
Shall steal upon the camp,
O, let him find our armour bright,
And oil within our lamp!_"

"But where in the world does it come from?" asked St. Neot.

This could not be answered for the moment; but the saints turned their
horses' heads from the sea, and moved slowly on the track of the
sound, which at every step grew louder and more distinct.

"_It is at no appointed hours,
It is not by the dock,
That Satan, grisly wolf, devours
The unprotected flock_"

The visitors found themselves at the foot of an enormous sand-hill,
from the top of which the chant was pouring as lava from a crater.
They set their ears to the sandy wall. They walked round it, and
listened again.

"_But ever prowls th' insidious foe,
And listens round the fold_"

This was too much. St. Petroc smote twice upon the sand-hill with his
crozier, and shouted--

"Hi, there!"

The chant ceased. For at least a couple of minutes nothing happened;
and then St. Piran's bald head was thrust cautiously forward over the
summit.

"Holy St. Petroc! Was it only you, after all? And St. Neot--and St.
Udy O, glory be!"

"Why, who did you imagine we were?" St. Petroc asked, still in
amazement.

"Why, throat-cutting Danes, to be sure, by the way you were comin'
over the hills when we spied you, three ho