Reluctantly the dogs abandon their quarry and obediently sit with wary eyes fixed on the trespasser. I look down upon the long length of a young Asian man, who is dazedly trying to raise himself. 

"Are you hurt?" I instinctively speak in Korean.

He struggles into a sitting position, and looks at himself ruefully. He is sprinkled with dust and earth, and the blue tee-shirt he is wearing is torn in several places; the tougher canvas shorts are undamaged. 

"No, I don't think so, but I thought those black devils were going to savage me." 

He answers me back in Korean.

He has a cultivated, pleasant voice, which somehow suggests it could hold a hint of laughter, even when he appears to be serious, but he is far from laughing at the moment; he is scowling at the dogs, who, pink tongues lolling, continue to eye him suspiciously. I see a lean, pale face, with an aquiline nose, surmounted by a thick thatch of black hair.

"They wouldn't really bite, but you see you're trespassing," I tell him. 

"Oh, nonsense." 

He rises to his feet with a quick, lithe movement, and looks down at me. I realise that he is considerably taller than I am, about six feet, my grandfather's height. The shale shifts under his feet, and as he seeks securer footing, the dogs growl. 

"You're well guarded," he remarks, "but may I point out that all these cliffs belong to the National Trust?" 

"Not those below the Ravenscrag and," I say, "and nobody ever comes here, there's no proper path and the beach is mostly slate. Didn't you see the warning notices?" 

He laughs; his teeth are very white in his lightly-tanned face. Brown too are his exposed arms and legs, on which I notice several scratches. He holds himself with an arrogant, slightly reckless air, which is reflected in his voice, as he says: "I never take any notice of warning notices. I regard them as a challenge."

"That's not very wise round here," I retort. "These cliffs really are dangerous - the rock crumbles." 

He looks back at the grey cliff behind us, over which gulls were circling, and then turns his gaze back to me.

His eyes sweep over me, and I am surprised to see that they are very dark, like his black brows, and fringed with long black lashes. He takes in my slight figure, bare of arm and leg, the black shift, the long straight hair tangled about my face. Finally his glance meet mine and hold. I become conscious of my scanty garb, my bare feet - I have  abandoned my sandals - and deep within me something stirs, the first awareness of my womanhood. 

"How strange, to find a Korean girl in Cornwall."

"I'm Korean," I put up my chin, and stare down my nose at him. "But you speak fluent Korean. Are you Korean as well?"

"Yes, I am," he grins. He looks down into my upturned face, and I shift awkwardly, under his keen appraisal.

"Perhaps you live here?" he says softly. "You're a sea nymph - what did the ancients call them - nereids; only a nereid or a sea witch could have such strange eyes." 

His voice is low, gently teasing, his eyes intent, his gaze magnetic. 

Colour rises to stain my face, and with an effort I turn my head away, to look towards the sea. 

"I live at Ravenscrag," I tell him, "and there is a way down the cliff, though only Grandfather and I know it."

"And your grandfather, is he here with you?" he asked, looking past me as if expecting to see him. 

I shake my head. 

"No. He's dead," I say flatly. 

"I'm sorry," he says gently. "Did you live with him?" 

"Yes, he was all I had." 

"Poor little kid!"

"I'm not a kid," I say indignantly, then lifting my chin, I add proudly, "I'm Jung Yiseul." 

The stranger stares at me incredulously. "Jung Yiseul? You're kidding."

"I'm not. Professor Marcus Jung was my grandfather, but of course you're only a visitor, you won't have heard of the Jungs."

He gives a low whistle, and his eyes rake me from my head to my bare feet with open amusement. "Jung Yiseul - well, I'll be damned!"

Seeing my surprised expression, he  says, "Sorry, I didn't mean to be rude. I have heard of the Jungs; at the farm where I'm staying everyone has been talking about Professor Jung's sudden death, but from what they said I understood Miss Jung was grown up and very much the lady of the Manor."

"I am grown up," I flash at him indignantly. "I'm eighteen.' He looks astonished. "This frock was run up in a hurry - I - I wanted something black, but I look very different when I'm properly dressed."

I draw myself up with what I hope is an assumption of dignity.

"Naturally I don't put on my best clothes to take the dogs for a run on the beach." 

"Naturally," he agrees, his eyes crinkling with laughter. "Again I apologise. I'm sure you look most impressive when you're - er - dressed up."

I do not like his tone, I have a feeling he is mocking me. Does he still not believe me? He continues to study me with an amusement that I am beginning to resent. While I am searching my mind for a scathing remark that would put him in his place, Tris gives a whimper.

"Up, dogs, off you go," I order, not sorry for a diversion. 

Sol is away like an arrow, a black streak through the sunlight, but Tris, more conscientious, lingers, distrustfully eyeing the stranger. 

"Friend, Tris," I tell him. 

"Here, boy," the man says encouragingly, holding out his hand. 

Tris sniffs it doubtfully, wise in doggy ways, the stranger neither advances nor retreats. Tris continues to sniff, his survey including shoes and legs, then, satisfied, he slowly moves his tail, which begins to wag with increasing acceleration. Then he the long elegant fingers extended towards him. 

"What do you call him? Tris? That's a funny name for a dog," he remarks. 

"It's short for Tristan, and his mate's called Isolde," I tell him, as Tris runs after Sol. "Tristram or Tristan was one of Arthur's knights, and he was in love with Isolde, or Iseult, as some called her..."

"Yes, I know the tale," he interrupts me. "This place teems with Arthurian legends. Tintagel, wasn't it, where the wronged King Mark had his castle," and he quotes, "half in the sea and half on land a crown of towers". 

"That's a place I must visit." 

"There aren't any towers left," I say, half charmed, half antagonised by my companion. 

I am about to ask him what his name is, when I notice a red scratch on his arm is bleeding. 

"You're hurt, there's blood on your arm." 

He looks at it indifferently, and begins to dab it with his handkerchief. I watch this proceeding with disfavour. 

"You ought to have it attended to properly," I say anxiously. "I'll show you the way up and then Carey can put a plaster on it." 

"It's nothing," he says carelessly. "I'll bathe it in sea water, that's a good disinfectant, you know."