hollow entrance into the cliff, like a huge cathedral
door, crowned and surrounded with natural
Saxon arches, curved by the strata of native
stone. Within was an arched and vaulted cave,
vast and gloomy; it ran a long way into the
heart of the land, and was as large and tall—
so the country-people said—as Kilkhampton
church. This stronghold was inaccessible by
natural means, and could only be approached by
a cable ladder lowered from above and made
fast below on a projecting crag. It received the
name of "Coppinger's Cave," and was long the
scene of fierce and secret revelry, that would be
utterly inconceivable to the educated mind of
the nineteenth century. Here sheep were
tethered to the rock, and fed on stolen hay and
corn till their flesh was required for a feast;
kegs of brandy and hollands were piled around;
chests of tea; and iron-bound sea-chests
contained the chattels and the revenues of the
Coppinger royalty of the sea. No man ever essayed
the perilous descent into the cavern except the
captain's own troop; and their loyalty was
secured not only by their participation in his
crimes, but by a terrible oath.

The terror linked with Coppinger's name
throughout the coast was so extreme that the
people themselves, wild and lawless as they
were, submitted to his sway as though he had
been the lord of the soil and they his vassals.
Such a household as Coppinger's, was, of course,
far from happy or calm. Although when his
wife's father died he had insensibly acquired
possession of the stock and farm, there remained in
the hands of the widow a considerable amount
of money as her dower. This he obtained from
the poor helpless woman by instalments; and
when pretext and entreaty alike failed, he
resorted to a novel mode of levy. He fastened his
wife to the pillar of her oak bedstead, and called
her mother into the room. He then explained
that it was his purpose to flog Dinah with the
sea-cat which he flourished in his hand until
her mother had transferred to him such an
amount as he required of her reserved
property. This deed of atrocity he repeated until
he had utterly exhausted the widow's store
He had a favourite mare, so fierce and
indomitable that none but Coppinger himself
could venture on her back, and so fleet and
strong that he owed his escape from more than
one menacing peril by her speed and endurance.
The clergyman had spoken above his breath of
the evil doings in the cave, and had thus aroused
his wrath and vengeance. On a certain day he
was jogging homeward on his parish cob, and
had reached the middle of a wide and desolate
heath. All at once he heard behind him the
clattering of horse-hoofs and a yell such as
might have burst from the throat of the visible
demon when he hurled the battle on the ancient
saint. It was Cruel Coppinger with his double-
thonged whip, mounted on his terrible mare.
Down came the fearful scourge on his victim's
shuddering shoulders. Escape was impossible.
The poor parson knew too well the difference
between his own ambling galloway, that never
essayed any swifter pace than a jog-trot, and that
awful steed behind him with footsteps like the
storm. Circling, doubling, like a hare, twisting
aside, crying aloud for mercy, all was vain. He
arrived at last at his own house, striped like a
zebra, and as he rushed in at the gate he heard
the parting scoff of his assailant: "There,
parson, I have paid my tithe in full; never
mind the receipt."

It was on the self-same animal that Coppinger
performed another freak. He had passed a
festive evening at a farm-house, and was about
to take his departure, when he spied at the
corner of the hearth a little old tailor of the
country-side, who went from house to house to
exercise his calling. He was a half-witted,
harmless old fellow, and answered to the name
of Uncle Tom Tape.

"Ha! Uncle Tom," cried Coppinger, "we
both travel the same road, and I don't mind
giving thee a hoist behind me on the mare."

The old man cowered in the settle. He would
not encumber the gentleman; was unaccustomed
to ride such a spirited horse. But all his
excuses were overborne. The other guests,
entering into the joke, assisted the trembling old
man to mount the crupper of the capering
mare. Off she bounded, and Uncle Tom,
with his arms cast with the strong gripe of terror
around his bulky companion, held on like grim
death. Unbuckling his belt, Coppinger passed
it around Uncle Tom's thin haggard body, and
buckled it on his own front. When he had
firmly secured his victim, he loosened his reins,
and urged the mare with thong and spur into a
furious gallop. Onward they rushed, till they
fled past the tailor's own door at the roadside,
where his startled wife, who was on the watch,
afterwards declared "she caught sight of her
husband clinging on to a rainbow." Loud and
piteous were the outcries of Tailor Tom, and
earnest his shrieks of entreaty that he might be
told where he was to be carried that night, and
for what doom he had been buckled on. At last,
in a relaxation of their pace going up a steep
hill, Coppinger made him a confidential
communication.

"I have been," he said, "under a long promise
to the devil, that I would bring him a
tailor to make and mend for him, poor man;
and as sure as I breathe, Uncle Tom, I mean to
keep my word to-night!"

The agony of terror produced by this revelation
produced such convulsive spasms, that at
last the belt gave way, and the tailor fell off like
a log among the gorse at the roadside. There he
was found next morning in a semi-delirious state,
muttering at intervals, "No, no; I never will.
Let him mend his breeches with his own drag-
chain, as the saying is. I will never so much as
thread a needle for Coppinger nor for his friend."

One boy was the only fruit of poor Dinah's
marriage with the Dane. But his birth brought
neither gladness nor solace to his mother's
miserable hearth. He was fair and golden-haired,
and had his father's fierce, flashing eyes. But
though perfectly well-formed and healthful, he