Michael Penguyne | Page 5

Mullyan
Cove, towards the north, passing close round the lofty Gull Rock,
which stands in solitary grandeur far away from the shore, braving the
fierce waves as they roll in from the broad Atlantic.
Asparagus Island and Lion Rock opened out to view, while the red and
green sides of the precipitous serpentine cliffs could now be
distinguished, assuming various fantastic shapes: one shaped into a
complete arch, another the form of a gigantic steeple, with several
caves penetrating deep into the cliff, on a level with the narrow belt of
yellow sand.
Young Michael, though accustomed from his childhood to the wild and
romantic scenery, had never passed that way without looking at it with
an eye of interest, and wondering how those cliffs and rocks came to
assume the curious forms they wore.

The little "Wild Duck," for that was the name Paul Trefusis had given
his boat, continued her course, flying before the fast increasing gale
close inshore, to avoid the strong tide which swept away to the
southward, till, rounding a point, she entered the mouth of a narrow
inlet which afforded shelter to a few boats and small craft. It was a wild,
almost savage-looking place, though extremely picturesque. On either
side were rugged and broken cliffs, in some parts rising sheer out of the
water to the gorse-covered downs above, in others broken in terraces
and ledges, affording space for a few fishermen's cottages and huts,
which were seen perched here and there, looking down on the tranquil
water of the harbour.
The inlet made a sharp bend a short distance from its mouth, so that, as
Paul's boat proceeded upwards, the view of the sea being completely
shut out, it bore the appearance of a lake. At the further end a stream of
water came rushing down over the summit of the cliffs, dashing from
ledge to ledge, now breaking into masses of foam, now descending
perpendicularly many feet, now running along a rapid incline, and
serving to turn a small flour-mill built a short way up on the side of the
cliff above the harbour.
Steep as were the cliffs, a zigzag road had been cut in them, leading
from the downs above almost to the mouth of the harbour, where a rock
which rose directly out of the water formed a natural quay, on which
the fishing-boats could land their cargoes. Beyond this the road was
rough and steep, and fitted only for people on foot, or donkeys with
their panniers, to go up and down. Art had done little to the place.
The little "Wild Duck," a few moments before tossed and tumbled by
the angry seas, now glided smoothly along for a few hundred yards,
when the sails were lowered, and she floated up to a dock between two
rocks. Hence, a rough pathway led from one of the cottages perched on
the side of the cliff. At a distance it could scarcely have been
distinguished from the cliff itself. Its walls were composed of large
blocks of unhewn serpentine, masses of clay filling up the interstices,
while it was roofed with a thick dark thatch, tightly fastened down with
ropes, and still further secured by slabs of stone to prevent its being

carried away by the fierce blasts which are wont to sweep up and down
the ravine in winter.
There was space enough on either side of the cottage for a small garden,
which appeared to be carefully cultivated, and was enclosed by a stone
wall. At the upper part of the pathway a flight of steps, roughly hewn in
the rock, led to the cottage door.
The door opened as soon as Paul's boat rounded the point, and a young
girl with a small creel or fish basket at her back was seen lightly
tripping down the pathway, followed by an old woman, who, though
she supported her steps with a staff, also carried a creel of the ordinary
size. She wore a large broad-brimmed black hat, and a gaily-coloured
calico jacket over her winsey skirt; an apron, and shoes with metal
buckles, completing the ordinary costume of a fish-wife of that district.
Little Nelly was dressed very like her grandmother, except that her feet
were bare, and that she had a necklace of small shells round her throat.
Her face was pretty and intelligent, her well-browned cheeks glowed
with the hue of health, her eyes were large and grey, and her black hair,
drawn up off her forehead, hung in neat plaits tied with ribbons behind
her back. Nelly Trefusis was indeed a good specimen of a young
fisher-girl.
She tripped lightly down the pathway, springing to the top of the
outermost rock just before her father's boat glided by it, and in an
instant stepping nimbly