They swam
together while their strength lasted, but at the end they were so done
up that even the lights above, and the men slung with ropes, coming
down to help them, could not keep them up. But one of them stood on the
bottom and held up his comrade over his head, and those few breaths
made all the difference between life and death. They were a shocking
sight when they were taken out, for that water is like a purple dye
with the gas and the tar. The man upstairs looked as if he had been
washed in blood. Ugh!”

“And the other?”

“Oh, he’s worse still. But he must have been a very noble fellow. That
struggle under the water must have been fearful; one can see that by
the way the blood has been drawn from the extremities. It makes the
idea of the _Stigmata_ possible to look at him. Resolution like this
could, you would think, do anything in the world. Ay! it might almost
unbar the gates of Heaven. Look here, old man, it is not a very
pleasant sight, especially just before dinner, but you are a writer,
and this is an odd case. Here is something you would not like to miss,
for in all human probability you will never see anything like it
again.” While he was speaking he had brought me into the mortuary of
the hospital. On the bier lay a body covered with a white sheet, which was wrapped
close round it. “Looks like a chrysalis, don’t it? I say, Jack, if there be anything in
the old myth that a soul is typified by a butterfly, well, then the one
that this chrysalis sent forth was a very noble specimen and took all
the sunlight on its wings. See here!” He uncovered the face. Horrible,
indeed, it looked, as though stained with blood. But I knew him at
once, Jacob Settle! My friend pulled the winding sheet further down. The hands were crossed on the purple breast as they had been reverently
placed by some tender-hearted person. As I saw them my heart throbbed
with a great exultation, for the memory of his harrowing dream rushed
across my mind. There was no stain now on those poor, brave hands, for
they were blanched white as snow. And somehow as I looked I felt that the evil dream was all over. That
noble soul had won a way through the gate at last. The white robe had
now no stain from the hands that had put it on. Crooken Sands


Mr Arthur Fernlee Markam, who took what was known as the Red House
above the Mains of Crooken, was a London merchant, and being
essentially a cockney, thought it necessary when he went for the summer
holidays to Scotland to provide an entire rig-out as a Highland
chieftain, as manifested in chromolithographs and on the music-hall
stage. He had once seen in the Empire the Great Prince—“The Bounder
King”—bring down the house by appearing as “The MacSlogan of that Ilk,”
and singing the celebrated Scotch song, “There’s naething like haggis
to mak a mon dry!” and he had ever since preserved in his mind a
faithful image of the picturesque and warlike appearance which he
presented. Indeed, if the true inwardness of Mr. Markam’s mind on the
subject of his selection of Aberdeenshire as a summer resort were
known, it would be found that in the foreground of the holiday locality
which his fancy painted stalked the many hued figure of the MacSlogan
of that Ilk. However, be this as it may, a very kind fortune—certainly
so far as external beauty was concerned—led him to the choice of
Crooken Bay. It is a lovely spot, between Aberdeen and Peterhead, just
under the rock-bound headland whence the long, dangerous reefs known as
The Spurs run out into the North Sea. Between this and the “Mains of
Crooken”—a village sheltered by the northern cliffs—lies the deep bay,
backed with a multitude of bent-grown dunes where the rabbits are to be
found in thousands. Thus at either end of the bay is a rocky
promontory, and when the dawn or the sunset falls on the rocks of red
syenite the effect is very lovely. The bay itself is floored with level
sand and the tide runs far out, leaving a smooth waste of hard sand on
which are dotted here and there the stake nets and bag nets of the
salmon fishers. At one end of the bay there is a little group or
cluster of rocks whose heads are raised something above high water,
except when in rough weather the waves come over them green. At low
tide they are exposed down to sand level; and here is perhaps the only
little bit of dangerous sand on this part of the eastern coast. Between
the rocks, which are apart about some fifty feet, is a small quicksand,
which, like the Goodwins, is dangerous only with the incoming tide. It
extends outwards till it is lost in the sea, and inwards till it fades
away in the hard sand of the upper beach. On the slope of the hill
which rises beyond the dunes, midway between the Spurs and the Port of
Crooken, is the Red House. It rises from the midst of a clump of
fir-trees which protect it on three sides, leaving the whole sea front
open. A trim old-fashioned garden stretches down to the roadway, on
crossing which a grassy path, which can be used for light vehicles,
threads a way to the shore, winding amongst the sand hills. When the Markam family arrived at the Red House after their thirty-six
hours of pitching on the Aberdeen steamer _Ban Righ_ from Blackwall,
with the subsequent train to Yellon and drive of a dozen miles, they
all agreed that they had never seen a more delightful spot. The general
satisfaction was more marked as at that very time none of the family
were, for several reasons, inclined to find favourable anything or any
place over the Scottish border. Though the family was a large one, the
prosperity of the business allowed them all sorts of personal luxuries,
amongst which was a wide latitude in the way of dress. The frequency of
the Markam girls’ new frocks was a source of envy to their bosom
friends and of joy to themselves. Arthur Fernlee Markam had not taken his family into his confidence
regarding his new costume. He was not quite certain that he should be
free from ridicule, or at least from sarcasm, and as he was sensitive
on the subject, he thought it better to be actually in the suitable
environment before he allowed the full splendour to burst upon them. He
had taken some pains, to insure the completeness of the Highland
costume. For the purpose he had paid many visits to “The Scotch
All-Wool Tartan Clothing Mart” which had been lately established in
Copthall-court by the Messrs. MacCallum More and Roderick MacDhu. He
had anxious consultations with the head of the firm—MacCallum as he
called himself, resenting any such additions as “Mr.” or “Esquire.” The
known stock of buckles, buttons, straps, brooches and ornaments of all
kinds were examined in critical detail; and at last an eagle’s feather
of sufficiently magnificent proportions was discovered, and the
equipment was complete.