CHAPTER VI.
"THE SERPENT'S VOICE LESS SUBTLE."
The fishing hamlet lay under the shadow of a sea-worn, red-brown, sullen cliff, that had the mists of the dawn still on its rugged forehead, and the foam of the uprising tide now angrily splashing its feet; a mighty fortress of rock, that would break from its gloom to a wonderful beauty when the sun should come round to the west, and the glory spread over the waters. There were but four or five cabins, dropped in among the loose piles of stone and the pale plumes of the sand grasses; huts low nestled, and hidden like the nests on northern beaches of the sea-hovering tern. And these few were deserted; the men had been out two days with their boats and their nets, and their womankind were alone left, with children wild-haired and ruddy-cheeked, and with naked limbs of a marvellous mould and grace,
