After   a  few   breathless  moments  of  delay,  the  canoe  came


MERRY-MOUNT.  243

slowly  floating  down  the  stream.  It  was  Sir  Christopher
Gardiner  indeed  who  sat  within  that  frail,  birchen  bark,  but  how
changed  in  appearance  from  the  brilliant  Sir  Fulk  de  Gorges.
His  dress  was  squalid,  his  features,  emaciated  by  fasting,  vigils
and  exposure,  were  almost  overgrown  by  his  coal-black  beard  ;
while  the  fierce  light  which  shone  from  his  sunken  and  cavern
ous  eyes,  seemed  an  unholy  and  sepulchral  flame.  He  appeared,
however,  calm  and  self-possessed,  and  his  head,  at  the  slightest
rustle  in  the  bushes,  turned  with  its  quick,  snake-like  move
ment,  seeming  almost  to  anticipate  the  arrival  of  every  sound.
No  sooner  hid  the  canoe  floated  past  the  lurking  place  of  the
party,  than,  at  a  nod  from  Captain  Underbill,  two  of  the  savages
plunged  into  the  stream,  and  swam  boldly  towards  the  knight.
Although  the  movement  had  been  as  stealthy  and  as  noiseless  as
possible,  Gardiner  confronted  them  in  an  instant  with  his  match
lock  at  his  cheek.  The  Indians  hesitated  a  moment,  and  then
one  of  them  advanced.  In  another  instant,  there  was  a  flash,  a
report,  a  yell,  and  the  blood  of  the  foremost  savage  dyed  the
placid  waters  of  the  river.  The  other  Indian  dived  below  the
surface,  and  regained  the  shore.  The  knight  profited  by  the
interval  to  re-load  his  piece.
