'Granted,' said the captain; 'I promise.'
'Stop, stop!' exclaimed the merchant hurriedly; 'let us do it regular—and make it what it ought to be.'
'Anything you like,' responded the captain. 'What I say I mean. I'll pledge my life if you will.' And then, by a solemn vow, the blinded and seduced sailor bound himself never to divulge the name of his tempter, imprecating fearful judgments on himself if he violated his promise.
'I am satisfied,' said the merchant. 'Here's the money, Stauncy; and now all you have to do is to whistle for a breeze.'
A gust of wind that moment rushing through the passage shrieked into the keyhole. The fire cracked and flared with intense excitement. The merchant's dog, which had lain quietly under the table, gave one short bark and one long howl; and so they separated.
CHAPTER III.
The village of Northam, which lies on the slope of a high tongue of land between Bideford Bay and the Torridge, is neither pretty, nor picturesque, nor romantic, nor anything of the kind. It is a plain, antiquated, countrified-looking place, with irregular rows of cottages, representing the style of architecture which prevailed centuries ago, relieved occasionally by a dilapidated building of statelier proportions, disclosing signs of former gentility, at a time when the houses of the poor were at a respectful distance from it, and it could boast of shrubbery, lawn, and orchard. The plainness of the village, however, by no means detracts from its merit, for historic associations of no small interest have gathered round this little hamlet, from the days of Ubba, the Danish chieftain and robber, to the days of James Stauncy; and warriors of note, seamen of renown, friars of doubtful reputation, have in their turn given Northam a name, and made it, 'for the nonce,' a small lion. It is not of these, however that we have now to write. Had the captain's dwelling been elsewhere, the village would have been left alone in its quietude; but there, in the street which lies at right angles to the main road, and which leads to the Appledore Causeway, is the selfsame cottage he once called his home. Time has not changed it greatly. The huge chimney projects where it always projected, supporting the front wall, and wasting its comfortable warmth upon the front air. The window by its side is somewhat modernized, indeed, and instead of the double hatch there is a panelled door. In all other respects it is the same cottage still.
