Dan took his companion's arm, and climbed the tide-washed bank. He stood for a moment listening and peering into the darkness, then he made for the nearest cottage. The shutter was not closed, and the faint glow of leaping firelight shone through the oiled paper stretched across the bars of the lattice. The sailor turned to the door, and pulled the latch string.
"Peace be to you all, friends," he said. "'Tis the voice of a Pengelly that speaks."
"Come into the light, Pengelly. Your tongue doth not ring familiarly," came the answer.
Dan stepped forward, leaving Nick on the threshold.
A young fisherman and his wife sat in the narrow arc of the firelight, and beside them, on a deerskin, their little son basked in the genial warmth. The breeze through the open door fanned the glowing wood into flame.
"Close the door, friend," said the fisherman.
"I have a comrade on the threshold."
"Then bring him in."
Nick entered, apologizing for his intrusion, and giving his name, town, and profession as a guarantee of his honesty of purpose.
"Ye are welcome both," replied the fisherman. "We have supped, but the wife shall set meat and drink before you."