Chapter Eighteen.
Tells of King Arthur and other more or less Fabulous Matters.
Next day Oliver Trembath and his friend Charles Tregarthen, before the sun had mounted his own height above the horizon, were on their way to the Land’s End.
The young men were admirably suited to each other. Both were well educated, and possessed similar tastes, though their temperaments were dissimilar, and both were strong athletic youths—Oliver’s superiority in this latter respect being at that time counterbalanced by his recent illness, which reduced him nearly to a level with his less robust companion.
Their converse was general and desultory until they reached the Land’s End, on the point of which they had resolved to breakfast.
“Now, Oliver, we have purchased an appetite,” said Tregarthen, throwing down a wallet in which he carried some provisions; “let us to work.”
“Stay, Charlie, not here,” said Oliver; “let us get out on the point, where we shall have a better view of the cliffs on either side of the Land’s End. I love a wide, unobstructed view.”
“As you will, Oliver; I leave you to select our table, but I pray you to remember that however steady your head may have been in days of yore when you scaled the Scottish mountains, the rough reception it has met with in our Cornish mines has given it a shake that renders caution necessary.”
“Pshaw! Charlie, don’t talk to me of caution, as if I were a timid old woman.”