were so far in advance that he could only follow their course by catching, at intervals, the gleaming of their arms. Around him was that fair land, now so long lost and forgotten, from the bosom of which men for ages had dug mineral wealth, upon which were seen no fewer than one hundred and forty stately churches, and whose beauty and fruitfulness have been the theme of many a romantic lay. Broken sunlight floated over its soft glades. It never looked so grandly glorious as on that hour of its fate. As Mordred pressed on, full of one thought alone, already in imagination hemming in to slaughter, or driving into the waves, his enemies, his attendants and followers began to be sensible of a change in the atmosphere, of a something oppressive and horrible, though he himself perceived it not. Huge battlemented clouds, tinged with lurid red, hung over the horizon. The air became sultry and choking. A tremulous and wavy motion shook the ground at intervals. A low sound, like distant thunder, moaned around. The soldiers of his train drew closer together, awe-struck and terrified. But Mordred heard only the evil voice of his own passions. The war of the elements gave unmistakeable signs of its awaking. But Mordred perceived it not.

At last, amid a silence that might be felt, so dreadful was it, and so dull-that fearful shade, which had hitherto gone before him, and restrained his madness, suddenly itself stopped. It assumed a definite shape. It was the form of Merlin, the Enchanter. But it was even more terrible than Merlin, for it united the unearthly glare of the spectre with the grandeur of the inspired man. Right in Mordred's path, face to face, did the avenger stand. They remained for a few seconds,

motionless, frowning upon each other. Neither spake, save with the eye. After those few seconds, the great wizard raised his arm. Then there ensued a confused muttering, a sound, as though the foundations of the great deep. were broken up. Soon the voice of the subterranean thunder increased, and the firm soil beneath their feet began to welk and wave, and fissures appeared upon the surface, and the rock swelled like the throes of a labouring sea. With a wild cry of agony, the band of pursuers became in turn the pursued. They wheeled and rushed away in headlong flight. But it was in vain. The earth, rent in a thousand fragments, in the grasp of that earthquake, upheaved its surface convulsively, gave one brief and conscious pause, and then, at once, sank down for ever beneath the level of the deep. In a moment, a continent was submerged, with all its works of art, and piety, with all its living tribes, with all its passions, and hopes, and fears. The soldiers of Mordred were whirled away in the stream created by that sudden gulf, which even now flows so violently over its prey below. Last of all, Mordred remained, as it were fascinated and paralyzed, gazing at the phantom with a look in which horror struggled with hate, and which was stamped with scorn and defiance to the end. That morning had dawned upon as bright a scene as ever met the eye. At evening, there was nought from what was then first termed the Land's-end, to St. Martin's head, but a howling and boiling wilderness of waves, bearing here and there upon its bosom a fragment from the perished world beneath or a corse tossed upon the billows, over which sea birds wheeled and screamed.

The remnant that was preserved reached in safety Cassiteris,

called afterwards Silura, and now Scilly.

There the wicked ceased to trouble, and the weary were at rest. In their island home, upon which still the sea encroaches daily, they dwelt securely. From St. Martin's height, on their arrival, they saw the catastrophe that overwhelmed their enemies, and, dismounting, knelt upon the turf, and thanked God for their deliverance. They never more sought the Britain of their hope and fame. It would have been a changed and a melancholy home for them. Arthur was in his tomb, at Glastonbury. Guenever was dead. The Round Table was broken and its best knights perished or dispersed. Their work was done. In the Isles of Scilly, thus miraculously severed from the main land, and, as it were set apart for their sakes, they lived, and there they died. In after days their children raised a stately religious house, at Tresco, over their bones. But their memory gradually faded away and was forgotten. Sometimes on a clear day there may be seen the remains of walls or buildings under the sea. Sometimes fishermen bring up relics of other times, and men wonder at them and speculate upon their cause, and use. Strangers make pilgrimages to Scilly, and marvel whether it ever exceeded its present limits. But the account of its isolation is remembered only as a confused dream; it is a mystery, an old world tale; a fragment of which, like a portion of a wreck, floats about, here and there, in the visions of the past.

Such is the legend of the Lionesse.

Another derivation of the word is from "Silya," the Cornish for "conger," a fish plentiful and much valued here.

See appendix.

CHAPTER IV.

SAINT MARY'S.

AINT MARY'S is the capital, as it were, of the islands; and Hugh Town is the capital of St. Mary's.

It is the most curious little place in the If Constantinople was originally called the eity of the blind, from the mistake committed by its founders in choosing for it the

worst site in the neighbourhood, Hugh Town has a fair prospect of being named the city of the drowned, for such will certainly be its end. It lies low on a neck of sand between two inlets or arms of the sea, St. Mary's pool, and Porcrasa bay,t which are about one hundred and fifty yards. apart. The tide has several times broken over the narrow isthmus on which it stands, submerging the buildings that indeed scarcely are above its ordinary level. On Buzza

So named from the patron saint of the abbey of Tavistock.

† Variously spelled, " Porth-cressa," or "Porth-crasou."

E

hill, to the south-east, can be traced the winding valley, from the old church to Hugh Town, where is seen, written in bold characters, the inevitable march of the waters. At a day, perhaps distant, perhaps very near, the garrison will form one islet, the high grounds of Buzza hill, and Peninnis, will become a second, leaving the main land still further shorn of its fair proportions by their loss. The ocean is an invader not easily baffled or repulsed. Within the memory of man it has covered two fields near the town, and has overflowed, and well-nigh swept away, the place itself. The inhabitants, meanwhile, sleep like Dutchmen under the shelter of their dykes. An Oriental never put greater faith in his kismet, or destiny, than a Scillonian in his immunity from drowning. They admit the probability of an inundation, but then, to engulf them, it requires so many concurrent visitations, such coincidences of tide, and wind, and moon, that they are content to take things as they are, and to wait for their prospective ducking with the most edifying and well-bred tranquillity. Just so did the people of old Port Royal, Jamaica, which may now be seen at low-water, offering a warning which no one heeds. Nature thus gives many a lesson to the world, but the world is a pupil that too often slights and neglects its

master.

The people of Hugh Town are said to be very plainspoken. The following anecdote is not a bad illustration of their talent in this line. When the chaplaincy was vacant, a clergyman came to see how the situation would suit him. He did duty at the church. After service, the sexton thus addressed him. "You won't do for the people here, Sir.