"Think of that Phoenician sailing his galley for the Isles of Tin. The
Romans follow him, day after day, week after week. But does he betray
the secret of Tyre's wealth?" Caradoc made a gesture. Madden was about
to answer that he didn't know, when the orator went on.
"He does not. Rather than expose the rich mines of Cornwall, he dashes
his galley upon a reef and risks his life among the early English
barbarians."
"Was it here where that happened?" asked Madden interestedly, fishing
some such tale from the bottom of his recollection.
Caradoc stood upright on the swinging platform, hands thrust in jacket
pockets, thumbs out, Oxford fashion. His tall form swayed slowly with
the steady rise and fall of the dock.
"Certainly, the Cassiterides is Cornwall, and that point of land just
ahead is the spot where the Tyrian wrecked his ship, so the legend
goes."
Madden's eyes followed Caradoc's gesture. "I've read that story, but I
never thought of seeing the place."
"Cornwall is entrancing if you care for antiquities," went on Smith in
the polished style of a collegiate. "Four or five miles up that cape are
the Boskednan Circles and the Dawns-un, old Druidic stone temples. Just
across the peninsula is St. Ives, where the virgin Hya appeared
miraculously.
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