[Footnote A: Teignmouth, Devon.]
Seated on one of the benches which skirt that pleasant promenade[B] were two feeble-looking men, with whom the summer of life had apparently passed. They conversed slowly and at intervals. That the theme interested both was clear from the earnest tone of the one, and the attention rendered by the other. It was connected too in some way with the sea: for, from time to time, the speaker paused and eyed wistfully the slumbering monster at his feet; and more than once the ejaculation was audible—"the secret is buried there!"
[Footnote B: The Denne.]
"And you believe this?" said the listener, half incredulously, half respectfully, when his elderly companion ceased.
"I do—firmly."
The other smiled, and then continued in a lower tone—
"All delusion! the result of a heated fancy—all delusion from beginning to end!"
"What is delusion?" said a tall military-looking figure, striding up and joining the group. "We all have, at one period or other of our lives, to battle with delusion and succumb to it. Now. sir," turning to the elder gentleman (his name was Ancelôt) and making a courteous bow—"pray favor me with your case and symptoms."
The party addressed looked nettled, and replied—
"Mine was no delusion; it was a stern and solemn reality."