CHAPTER ELEVEN.
Sub-Chapter I.
THE COASTGUARDSMAN'S YARN.
A LEGEND OF THE CIVIL WAR.
Several summers ago I happened to be spending a few weeks at W--, a small fishing village on the Welsh coast.

A beautiful little place it was, nestling in a break of the cliffs which rose majestically above it on either side and stretched in gaunt rugged walls seaward.
The beautiful bay, with its sunset lights behind the grand headland, with its deep caves and tumbled rocks, and above all its blue waters, lying sometimes calm and motionless, and at others dashing furiously at the foot of the cliffs, was enough to attract any lover of nature.
And dull little place as it was, with its one tiny inn and its handful of natives, the time I spent there, with my easel and paint-brush, was one of the most enjoyable of my life.
But beautiful as the view was from the land, I found the view from the sea still more attractive, and in order to gratify my tastes in this respect, I took pains to get myself into the good graces of one or two of the fishermen, a few of whom could speak English, and many times accompanied them on their fishing cruises in the bay, where, while they toiled at the nets, I sat and drank in the thousand beauties of the coast, or worked eagerly with my brush to commit them to canvas.
The expedition I liked best was towards the southern headland of the bay, where the cliffs were tallest and steepest and where, to add to the other attractions of the view, stood, perched like an eagle's nest on the edge of the crag, the ruins of an old castle.
By old, I do not mean Roman or even Norman.

Indeed in that sense it was comparatively modern; for the building, what was left of it, looked more like one of those Tudor manor-houses which dot the country still, than a fortress.

And yet, that it had been fortified was plain enough even still.

On the side towards the sea it needed no protection; indeed looking up at it from below, it seemed almost to overhang its precipitous foundation.