Among the many pretty coves we saw was one called Vellan Dreath, or the Mill in the Sand; but not a vestige of the mill remains.  Once upon a time it was inhabited by a bold miller and his stout son.  One morning, as he was looking seawards, just as he was about to turn on the water to move his mill, he observed above the sea-mists the masts of a tall ship. What object she had in coming so near the coast he could not divine; but it was as well to be cautious, lest she should prove an enemy. Going down to the edge of the water, he listened, when he heard the sound of oars, indicating the approach of a boat, and voices which sounded strange to his ears.  Calling to his son, he summoned him back into the mill, the door of which he closed.  A hole formed for lifting the latch enabled him to look out, when he saw a party of Spaniards with long guns coming towards the mill.  On this, running the muzzle of his piece through the hole, he ordered the enemy to keep off; but as they-- regardless of his warning--still came on, he fired, and knocked one of them over.  After he had fired, the Dons retired to a distance; but it was pretty evident that they intended to attack the mill.  On this, being certain that the small garrison could not hold out, and seeing the enemy again approaching, he set fire to a rick of furze, and while the wind blew the smoke in the faces of the Spaniards, he and his son, each taking a sack of flour on their shoulders, issued out through a back door and made their way up the hill.  They had got some distance up the steep ascent before they were discovered by the Spaniards, who then began firing at them.  The gallant millers made their escape, but the old man received a wound of which he ultimately died.  The son declared that his sack, from the number of bullets in it, was far heavier than when he set out.