"Ah, well," he said, "I am a useless person, it seems. Good-by. May I fall at your feet again to-morrow?"
The absurd question brought half a smile to her lips. She began to reply: "Worship so headlong——"
Then she saw that which caused her face to blanch.
"Why, your right hand is smothered in blood—something has happened——"
He glanced at his hand, which a pebble had cut on one of the knuckles; and he valiantly resisted the temptation that presented itself, and stood upright.
"It is a mere scratch," he assured her. "If I wash it in salt water it will be healed before I reach Tormouth. Good-by—mermaid. I believe you live in a cavern—out there—beneath the Tor. Some day soon I shall swim out among the rocks and look for you."
With that he stooped to recover his hat, walked seaward to find a pool, and held his hand in the water until the wound was cauterized. Then he lit another cigar, and saw out of the tail of his eye that the girl was now on the top of the cliff at some distance to the west.
"I wonder who she is," he murmured. "A lady, at any rate, and a very charming one."
And the girl was saying:
"Who is he?—A gentleman, I see. American? Something in the accent, perhaps. Or perhaps not. Americans don't come to torpid old Tormouth."