Ferris, shaken but exalted, stood now before "The Three Fishermen." The door was shut, but there was a light shining through the window, and, on coming closer, he saw faintly through the thick glass the figures of half a dozen of the regular customers gathered round the bar in earnest conversation with the landlord. He decided not to enter. He knew too well what the talk would be. These were fishermen, slow of speech and action, sturdy, with salt sense, but full of superstition. They would be talking again of Eric, the red-haired ghost of the Danish wanderer, shipwrecked on that shore a thousand years and more ago. He had come from under the sea where the ancient town lay engulfed long since by the waves, to the cliff where the modern city stood, to prowl through its streets, a thin wraith
