Dan held Davy by one of his great hands hitched into the lad's guernsey, and he lifted the other hand threateningly.
"Help! help! help!" Davy screamed still louder, and struggled yet more fiercely, until his strength was spent, and his breath was gone, and then there was a moment's silence.
The desolate place was still as desolate as before. Not a sign of life around; not an answering cry.
"There's nobody to help you," said Dan. "You have got to promise never to tell what you have seen to man, woman, or child."
"I won't promise, and I won't hould my tongue," said the lad, stoutly. "You are goin' to fight, you and Mastha Ewan, and—"
Dan stopped him. "Hearken here. If you are to live another hour, you will promise—"
But Davy had regained both strength and voice.
"I don't care—help! help! help!" he shouted.
Dan put his hand over the lad's mouth, and dragged him to the cliff head. Below was the brant steep, dark and jagged, and quivering in the deepening gloom, and the sea-birds were darting through the mid-air like bats in the dark.
"Look," said Dan, "you've got to swear never to tell what you have seen to-night, so help you God!"