There was a legend in the village
that several hundred years ago some pirates, driven by storm into
Borhaze, found their way on to the moor and, caught by the mist,
perished there; they are to be seen, says the village, in powdered wigs,
red coats, gold lace, and swords, haunting the sand-dunes. God help the
poor soul who may fall into their hands! This was a very pleasant story,
and Hugh Seymour's thoughts often crept around and about it. He would
like to find a pirate, to bring him to the vicarage, and present him to
Mr. Lasher. He knew that Mrs. Lasher would say, "Fancy, a pirate. Well!
now, fancy! Well, here's a pirate!" And that Mr. Lasher would say, "It's
a pity, Hugh, that you don't choose your company more carefully. Look at
the man's nose!"
Hugh, although he was only eleven, knew this. Hugh did on one occasion
mention the pirates. "Dreaming again, Hugh! Pity they fill your head
with such nonsense! If they read their Bibles more!"
Nevertheless, Hugh continued his dreaming. He dreamt of the moor, of
the pirates, of the cobbled street in Borhaze, of the cry of the Trezent
Bell, of the deep lanes and the smell of the flowers in them, of making
five hundred not out at cricket, of doing a problem in Euclid to Mr.
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