He sat in his
cottage above the sands at Perranzabuloe and dozed to the hum of the
breakers, in charity with all his parishioners, to whom his money
was large as the salt wind; for his sleeping partnership in the
tin-streaming business brought him a tidy income. And the folk knew
that if ever they wanted religion, they had only to knock and ask for
it.
But one fine morning, an hour before noon, the whole parish sprang to
its feet at the sound of a horn. The blast was twice repeated, and
came from the little cottage across the sands.
"'Tis the blessed saint's cow-horn!" they told each other. "Sure the
dear man must be in the article of death!" And they hurried off to the
cottage, man, woman, and child: for 'twas thirty years at least since
the horn had last been sounded.
They pushed open the door, and there sat St. Piran in his arm-chair,
looking good for another twenty years, but considerably flustered. His
cheeks were red, and his fingers clutched the cow-horn nervously.
"Andrew Penhaligon," said he to the first man that entered, "go you
out and ring the church bell.
Pages:
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89