The night was dark and the wind high. The heavy waves rolled round the point of “the Island” into St Ives Bay, as Atlantic waves only can roll. Everything bespoke a storm of no ordinary character. There were no ships in the bay—not a fishing-boat was afloat. The few small trading vessels had run into Hayle for shelter, or had nestled themselves within that very unquiet resting-place, St Ives pier. The fishing-boats were all high and dry on the sands.
Moving over the rocks which run out into the sea from the eastern side of “the Island,” was seen a light. It passed over the most rugged ridges, formed by the intrusive Greenstone masses, and over the sharp edges of the upturned slate-rocks, with apparent ease. Forth and back—to and from—wandered the light.
“Ha!” said an old sailor with a sigh, as he looked out over the sea; “a sad night! a sad night! The Lady and the Lantern is out.”
“The Lady and the Lantern,” repeated I; “what do you mean?”
“The light out yonder”——
“Is from the lantern of some fisherman looking for something he has lost,” interrupted I.
“Never a fisherman nor a ‘salt’ either would venture there to-night,” said the sailor.
“What is it, then?” I curiously inquired.
“Ha’ast never heard of the Lady and the Lantern?” asked a woman who was standing by.
“Never.”